


The Spaces After

by Arcadian90



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcadian90/pseuds/Arcadian90
Summary: A series of vignettes following the relationship between Dorian and the Inquisitor. A sequel of sorts, a prequel of sorts, but mostly just fluff.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 150
Kudos: 92





	1. Prologue: Birthday boy

“I need to talk to you,” the elf says.

Dorian smirks. These innocuous-sounding words are Seth-speak for _I am feeling randy, please accompany me to my quarters forthwith._ Dorian knows this, and Seth knows he knows this – but Dorian invariably toys with him anyway. “Oh?” he says innocently, tugging a book off the shelf and examining it with a critical frown. “Do tell.”

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“My dear Inquisitor, I daresay I’ve seen it before. So often, indeed, that I could probably draw it from memory, right down to that adorable little—”

“Yes, that’s…” Seth blushes and throws a glance over his shoulder at the crowded rotunda. “A little disturbing, actually. But not what I was referring to.”

“No? Such a pity.” Dorian’s tongue darts out to wet his thumb, and he flips a page idly.

It takes Seth a moment to recover from this distraction. Clearing his throat, he says, “It’s your birthday, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Dorian glances up sharply. “Who told you that?” It certainly wasn’t him. Dorian has made a point of ignoring birthdays since he discovered a single grey hair in his moustache – which grey hair was summarily excised and has had the good sense not to show itself again. Yet.

“I asked Leliana to find out. Which wasn’t easy, by the way.”

“I should hope not,” Dorian says tartly. “If I’d wanted you to know, I would have told you.”

“You do realize that keeping your birthday a secret doesn’t mean you stop aging?”

“Bite. Your. Tongue.” Dorian snaps the book shut. “I will forever be this young and beautiful, thank you very much.”

“Do you want your present or not?”

There’s no point in being coy. Dorian adores gifts, and the elf knows it. “Very well, Inquisitor, you’re clearly feeling very smug about all this, so let’s have it.”

Seth grins. “I am indeed, and you’ll see why. Follow me.”

He leads Dorian down the stairs, across the great hall and through the door leading to the war room. But before he reaches Josephine’s study, he takes a left and heads down another set of steps. “My present is in the _basement_?” Dorian doesn’t bother to disguise the faint note of distaste in his voice. He never comes down here, for obvious reasons. It’s damp and musty and full of cobwebs, and the wine cellar doesn’t contain a single vintage worth the effort. “Are you taking me to the dungeons? Is this a bondage thing?” He is momentarily distracted by this idea, picturing himself in manacles and a leather—

“This way,” the elf says, leading him past the vault. He crouches in front of a closed door, lockpicking tools in hand.

“What’s this? Reduced to picking locks in your own fortress?”

“No one knows where the key is,” Seth says, deft hands working away. “The lock was completely rusted, too. It didn’t seem important, so we all just forgot about it. But I was down here the other day, and I got curious. I decided to put in the effort to get it open, and…” The lock _clicks_ , and Seth throws a mysterious smile over his shoulder. He really does look awfully pleased with himself, and Dorian feels a twinge of anticipation as he trails the elf down a short corridor.

The sight that greets him takes his breath away. It’s a study, but not just any study. Bookshelves twenty feet high curve around a polished mahogany desk, over which is spread a massive book. Dorian can see at a glance that it’s elven, filled with magical formulas. A pair of candles burn on the desk, and he can feel their enchantment from here, lifting the downy hairs on his arms.

“It was thick with cobwebs when I found it,” Seth says, his gaze travelling appreciatively over the bookshelves. “But all these candles were burning away. Magic, obviously.”

It takes Dorian a moment to find his voice. “It’s incredible. And you say no one has been in here? You found it completely undisturbed?”

“For centuries, judging from the dust.”

“These tomes…” Dorian trails his fingers reverentially over the leather spines. “They look ancient. Wait, is this…?” He plucks one from the shelf, his mouth falling open in disbelief. “The _Compendium Arcanum_! But the sole surviving copy is in the Magisterium’s library in Minrathous!”

Seth grins. “Apparently not.”

“These must be catalogued immediately.” He’s so giddy he doesn’t even know where to start, prowling back and forth with wandering eyes and hands.

“And secretly,” Seth says, sobering. “I’m guessing some of the knowledge in this room is dangerous.”

“You have a gift for understatement, Inquisitor. The _Compendium_ alone… The library in Minrathous keeps it under lock and key, behind layers of wards. Only high-ranking magisters are permitted to consult it, and then only with written permission from the proper authority.” After paying a generous bribe, of course, and Dorian’s Tevinter mind can’t help contemplating the benefits of having access to such a tome. The leverage it would give him…

“Some of these books date to a time before the fall of Arlathan,” Seth says. “I can’t even read them.”

“What about Solas?”

“What about him?”

Dorian turns around, meeting his lover’s eye. “You haven’t asked him?”

“Of course not. Solas doesn’t know anything about this place.”

Impossibly, this beautiful moment just got even better.

“I told you, this is _your_ present. This library, and everything it contains, belongs to you. All I ask is that you catalogue it, and that you keep whatever you find in strictest confidence. No one learns of this place, and your notes are for my eyes only. Leliana’s most trusted agents will stand guard, but you’ll need to ward it as well.”

Dorian’s gaze travels over this literary treasure in disbelief. It’s a bounty beyond reckoning, and it’s… “Mine?”

“Yours.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a first.” Seth props himself against a bookshelf, smiling like the cat that got the cream.

Dorian is so overwhelmed that he lets his lover have that one for free. “It will take weeks. Months, even.”

“In that case, you’d better get started.”

“You’ll help me, of course?”

Seth tries very hard not look delighted by this proposal, and fails miserably. “If you like.”

“ _Amatus._ ” Dorian gathers him close and presses a kiss to his lips. “I can think of no greater pleasure than spending hours in this room with you. Even with our clothes on.”

Seth lifts his gaze to Dorian’s, and there’s a dangerous glint in those blue-green eyes. “We don’t have to have our clothes on _all_ the time.”

Dorian takes his cue, locking the door with a wave of his hand while Seth starts in on the laces of his breeches. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” Dorian sighs as warm hands slide down his hips, taking his clothing with them.

“You know…” Seth steers him toward a chair. “The Dalish celebrate birthdays for seven full days.”

“Really?”

“No,” the elf murmurs, pushing Dorian roughly into the chair. “But we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is a sequel of sorts to The Spaces Between and a prequel to In Setheneras. Full disclosure: it will be updated pretty randomly and I have no plans -- nada, zero -- for where it goes. I just find myself with a few stray scenes featuring these boys and I wanted someplace to put them -- so viola. If you've read the original Spaces, you know more or less what to expect here. (If you haven't, this will contain spoilers for that fic, but since Spaces follows canon pretty closely, you're really not missing any major plot points.) The timeline will probably jump around a bit, too. So with all that out of the way, welcome, and please do drop a line! I'd love to hear from you guys.


	2. The first step

The elf is in love.

It’s written all over him. The way his eyes linger appreciatively over the object of his affections. The way he lapses into brief, thoughtful silences. It’s in the lightness of his step and the tenor of his voice; in the subtle, secret smiles that come to his lips. It would be enough to make Dorian jealous, were it not perfectly absurd to be jealous of a _tree_. Or, more accurately, a forest – the teeming, thriving temperate jungle known as the Emerald Graves.

Dorian can’t pretend to understand it. Certainly, it’s a very _pretty_ forest. Impossibly lush, with fragrant, humid air and sparkling clear waters. There are a great many woodland creatures frolicking about, which is probably quite charming if you’re into that sort of thing. The history is fascinating, if depressing. And of course it's the place they found Maggie, the Inquisitor's darling wolf pup. At the end of the day, however, it is still a forest, entirely devoid of higher amusements or creature comforts of any kind. There isn’t even a decent inn. It’s a pleasant enough corner of the world, Dorian supposes, but he’s never sorry to leave it behind. His beloved, however, practically has to be dragged back to Skyhold by his ankles, fingernails leaving little furrows in the dirt. He was made for wild places like this, ancient arboreal kingdoms where the sighing leaves whisper secrets of old. The Emerald Graves are quite simply Seth’s idea of heaven. So when their hostess last night, a comtesse from Val Chevin, mentioned a local villa for sale, Dorian quietly steered her aside and made some inquiries.

Now he and Seth are standing at the gates of a stately property that reminds him of a slightly smaller version of Villa Maurel. Minus the vicious thugs, ideally.

Dorian hasn’t told the elf why they’re here, and Seth glances around, puzzled. “What is this place? I thought we’d discharged our social obligations for this trip.”

“Not quite. There’s still the soirée with the marquis to look forward to. But that’s not why we’re here.” Dorian unlatches the gate and pushes it open. “After you, Inquisitor,” he says with a bow.

Seth narrows his eyes. “Why are you being so mysterious?”

“Indulge me.”

He’s not being coy for the sake of it – at least, not entirely. He wants an unvarnished reaction, and Inquisitor Lavellan is too much of a diplomat to be counted on in this respect. The elf would rather feign delight than give offence – which is how he came to be the owner of a certain ghastly Antivan rug. The only sure way to get a genuine response out of Seth is to catch him off guard.

In which case, mission accomplished. The elf is visibly bemused as he makes his way along the cobblestone drive, searching in vain for some clue as to why he’s been brought here. A colonnade of prim cyprus trees flanks their path, escorting them toward a two-story limestone structure fronted by elegant butterfly windows. On the ground floor, butterfly doors give onto a marble-tiled piazza, where a cheerful fountain sparkles. Urns overflowing with fragrant white flowers stand on limestone plinths, their delicate petals dusting the piazza like flakes of snow. Creeping vines of ivy and yellow roses climb the walls and peek playfully between the shutters; meticulously pruned boxwoods cluster in the corners. At one end of the piazza, a gazebo overlooks a single lemon tree heavy with fruit. It is, in a word—

“Beautiful.” Seth’s gaze travels admiringly over the gardens.

“It is,” Dorian murmurs, half in surprise. If he’s honest with himself, he hadn’t really expected to like the place. This little excursion was as much about planting an idea in Seth’s head as anything. But _this_. How could one not be smitten? Already, Dorian is picturing himself sipping tonics in the gazebo, squeezing wedges of lemon plucked from that very tree.

“Who lives here?” Seth asks, his curiosity piqued.

“No one. It’s vacant, at least for now.”

The elf sighs. “Haunted, I suppose? But wait, I didn’t bring my daggers…”

“Not haunted, at least not that I know of.” The idea gives him momentary pause, but honestly, the place is so lovely that it wouldn’t necessarily be a deal-breaker. “It’s for sale.”

“You want the Inquisition to buy this? No disrespect to our soldiers, but this is a little much, don't you think?”

Dorian _tsks_. “Not for _them_ , you silly man. For us. As a summer home.”

“A summer home?" Seth echoes, baffled. "Since when are we looking for a summer home?”

This isn’t the reaction Dorian was expecting, and he suddenly feels self-conscious. “Since now,” he says with a careless wave, as though all this were nothing more than a whim. “Shall we take a look inside?”

As if on cue, a masked fellow with a bristly grey moustache appears in the piazza, dipping into a low bow. “Inquisitor! It is such an honour. And Magister Pavus, of course.”

“I’m not actually a magister, but thank you. Are you the agent, then?”

“ _Oui, exc_ _é_ _llence._ Lucien Baladin, at your service.” Another obsequious bow. “May I show you the property?”

Dorian and Seth exchange a glance. “If you don’t mind,” Dorian says, “we’d prefer to take a turn ourselves.”

“As you say, magister.”

“Not a magister. Shall we, _amatus_?”

The interior of the villa requires a little more imagination. The previous occupant was obviously Orlesian, and thus a number of highly questionable decorating choices have been made. The gold-plated bannister on the staircase will certainly have to be removed, and that ridiculously frilly chandelier. The colours are all wrong, and the carpets… no.

“That patterned wall, with the flowers…” Seth furrows his brow, and he and Dorian tilt their heads in unison.

“I believe it’s called _wall paper_.”

“Yes, but why?”

“A mystery for the ages.”

The lighting is wonderful, however, and the stonework around the hearths is decidedly understated by Orlesian standards. Dorian can work with this. He can, in fact, work _wonders_ with it.

“ _Mes seigneurs_ , if I may…” The obsequious agent is back. He gestures dismissively at their surroundings. “This villa is _charmante_ , but perhaps a little… _minimale_ for gentlemen of your station. There is a chateau nearby that may be more to your tastes, and suitable for the Inquisitor and a magister.”

“Still not a magister.”

Seth smiles diplomatically. “Thank you, but I don’t think we need anything quite so grand.”

A small grunt of disapproval issues from behind the mask. “Very good, Inquisitor.”

They head back out into the gardens, and as soon as they’re out of earshot, Seth says, “What are we doing here, Dorian?”

“We’ve been over this.”

“A summer home? Since when do we even holiday? I don’t understand where this is coming from all of a sudden.”

And that, right there, is what’s making Dorian nervous. The idea of buying a home together is apparently so startling that Seth can’t even wrap his head around it. “ _Amatus._ Corypheus is gone.” Dorian slips his fingers through the collar of Seth's tunic and draws out the Dalish promise necklace, the interlocking halla horns that mark them as betrothed. “You and I have decided to spend the rest of our lives together. Have you given any thought to what that actually looks like?”

“Of course. You’ve made it clear that your duty lies in the Imperium.”

Dorian takes a moment to tamp down the usual flutter of anxiety that accompanies this notion. He still has no idea how it’s going to work, but he chooses to believe things will sort themselves out somehow. “Be that as it may, we needn’t spend all our time in Tevinter. Much as I adore Minrathous, it’s about as far away from your upbringing as it could possibly be. This place…” Dorian gestures at the massive Dalish ironwoods looming over the property. “It makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

Seth lifts his blue-green gaze to the ivy-draped limbs above them. “It does,” he says softly. “It… speaks to my soul.”

“Of course. You are, to quote a certain raven-haired witch, a creature of the wilds.”

“But you’re not.” Seth’s mouth quirks wryly. “At all.”

“True, but with a place like this to call our own, we can stake out a perfect little corner of civilization in your beloved forest.”

Seth still looks skeptical. “I can’t ask you to make a sacrifice like that.”

“What sacrifice? Relaxing in a fabulous home in a pleasant climate with the man I love? I daresay I’ll manage. Just picture it.” He turns, framing the courtyard with his hands. “You and Maggie frolicking in the trees. Me, soaking up the sun with a cool drink, eating grapes. Then, supper in the gazebo, exotic glass lanterns flickering under the stars. Soft strains of music beckon through the butterfly doors…”

“Who’s playing music?”

Dorian flicks a hand impatiently. “Someone. Work with me.”

“These gardens do have real potential,” Seth says, taking in his surroundings with a newly appraising eye. “And that archway… It would be a perfect place to recreate one of the mosaics we saw at Din’an Hanin…”

The next thing they know, the agent is handing over the keys and Seth is explaining how to get in touch with Josephine and the man is walking away with the meandering gait of someone who can’t quite believe his own luck. Which he probably can’t.

Seth looks a little stunned himself as he stares at the keys in his hand. “Dorian, did we just buy a villa?”

“We seem to have, yes.”

The elf stares at the keys for a while longer, and when he looks up, his eyes are wet.

“What’s this?” Dorian laughs and draws him in close. “Are we feeling a bit sentimental, Inquisitor?”

He flushes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Dorian murmurs, tipping the elf’s chin up and brushing his lips across Seth’s. “It just got a little bit more real, that’s all.” He rests his forehead against his lover’s, and they take a moment to revel in this first step of their new life together. Then something occurs to Dorian, and he sighs. “ _Bugger_.”

“Something wrong?”

“We forgot to ask if it’s haunted.”


	3. Intruders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, everyone!

The hunter picks his way through the undergrowth, stopping every now and then to examine a bit of spoor. The bear he’s stalking is a big one, judging from the tracks – even Dorian can see that. It’s been in the area a while, too, at least according to Seth; he points out claw marks on the trees, and a frayed spot in the bark of a particularly large ironwood where the bear has been rubbing. He seems to find this fact significant – perhaps even troubling, judging by how quiet he’s become.

He’s brought Blackwall along, and Cassandra. Always best to have the battering rams on hand when you’re taking on a two thousand-pound predator. Their job is to bash away at the thing while the Inquisitor darts in and out landing cheeky blows. Dorian, meanwhile, will keep the beast chilled – and try not to get his pretty head knocked off in the process. Not his favourite activity, but the animal must be dealt with. It’s been rampaging through camp, apparently, and it’s only a matter of time before someone is seriously injured.

“There.” The elf stops abruptly. Maggie has spotted a cave about a hundred yards away, and she stares at it, ears pricked tellingly. “That must be its den,” Seth murmurs. His eyes narrow, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps it to himself.

Blackwall draws his sword. “We should get Maggie to lure it out. Easier to fight out in the open.”

“Not yet. I want a closer look first. You three wait here.”

“Sorry, what?” Dorian frowns. “You want to get closer to the rampaging bear by _yourself_?”

“Yes.” Seth drops his pack and digs out his hunting lotion, slathering his skin in pine fragrance to cover his own scent. “I won’t be long. Maggie, stay.” Before anyone can argue, he slips off between the trees, silent as a shadow.

“This is unwise,” Cassandra says helpfully. “If the bear charges him, he will never outrun it.”

Seth creeps close enough to the cave to make Dorian slightly queasy, but thankfully he doesn’t linger, cutting a wide arc back to where the rest of them are waiting. Dorian opens his mouth to ask whether they can get on with it – but the words die on his lips when he sees the look on the elf’s face. There’s a glint of fury in those blue-green eyes, and his lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Seth doesn’t get angry often, but whatever he found in that cave has made him very cross indeed.

“What’s our plan of attack?” Blackwall asks.

“There isn’t one,” Seth growls, shouldering his pack. “We’re done here.”

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra calls after him, but Seth is already striding back to the road, Maggie bounding alongside.

Dorian debates whether to catch up, but he senses the elf would rather be alone just now. So he keeps his curiosity in check, following at a respectful distance while his _amatus_ fumes on the path ahead.

“Inquisitor.” The scout who sent them off on this mission – Johnson, was it? – hails him from the edge of camp. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“And _I_ wasn’t expecting to be asked to slaughter an entire family of bears,” Seth returns coldly.

 _Aha_ , Dorian thinks.

Johnson blinks in surprise. “Sir?”

“The bear you sent me to kill. She’s a mother. With _three cubs_. You made it sound like some rabid thing that needed to be put down!”

“I… I thought that’s what it was, Inquisitor! How could I know?”

Seth throws his arms wide in exasperation. “How could you not? You do have _eyes_ , don’t you?”

Dorian clears his throat delicately. “I beg your pardon, Inquisitor, but I don’t know that such things are as obvious to some of us as they are to you.”

The elf scowls. “You’re telling me that if a nursing bear rears up on her hind legs and stands towering over you the way Johnson described, you could fail to notice the rows of swollen teats right in front of your face?”

“I imagine there’s a good deal one might fail to notice when one’s face is about to be ripped off.”

“Yes!” Johnson says. “Thank you!”

Blackwall looks at the man and shakes his head, and the scout wisely falls silent.

“Mother bear or no,” Cassandra says, “if it threatens the camp, we must deal with it.”

“I agree,” rumbles Blackwall. “It’s just a question of time before she kills someone.”

Maker’s breath, they are brave. Then again, Dorian supposes it’s their job to fling themselves in front of danger.

Seth glares coldly at both of them. “We’re not killing an innocent bear and her entire litter of cubs. That’s final.” So saying, he stalks off, his faithful wolf at his heels.

There’s an awkward silence as they all stare after him. Then Cassandra sighs. “Dorian…”

“Yes, very well,” he mutters, and heads off in pursuit.

He finds the elf pacing like a caged tiger just outside the ruins. “It’s _absurd_ ,” he snaps as Dorian approaches. “What _is it_ with humans? Do you think you can just march into a place and slaughter whatever stands in your way? Why would anyone expect me to go along with that? They do realize I’m _Dalish_?”

“Which of those would you like me to answer first?” Dorian folds his arms and props himself against a pillar. It’s refreshing, this reversal of roles. Usually, he’s the one throwing a tantrum while his lover looks on patiently.

Seth continues as if he hasn’t heard. “Not just any bear, either. An albino. The cubs, too. Do you have any idea how rare those are? _Elgan iovro_ , we call them. And it’s not just the Dalish. The Avvar consider them sacred. But by all means, let’s butcher an entire den of them because they’re inconvenient.”

“They’re not just inconvenient, _amatus_ ,” Dorian says gently. “They’re dangerous, as you well know. And she’s attacking the camp.”

“Only because we’re too close to her cubs!”

“Is that what Josephine will say in her letters to the families? _Sorry for your loss, but I’m afraid your son was just too close to her cubs._ ”

Seth scowls.

“You can give me stink-eye all you like, Inquisitor, but I’m right and you know it. Besides, it would hardly be the first bear you’ve killed, and I don’t recall you checking for swollen teats.”

“This is different.”

“How, pray?”

“I kill out of necessity. For furs or meat, or because I'm in danger. This”—he gestures at the camp—“is not a good enough reason. We’re the intruders here, not her.”

“That explains why you’d rather not do it, perhaps, but it doesn’t explain this fit of pique.” Dorian drops the teasing tone and comes closer, slipping his arms around the elf’s waist. “It’s not like you to bite a man’s head off like that. What’s this really about?”

As soon as he asks the question, he realizes his lover has already answered it. _What is it with humans? Do you think you can just march into a place and slaughter whatever stands in your way?_ It’s no accident that he’s asking this question here, of all places. Where the last of the Emerald Knights fell, and with them the Dales.

“It’s affecting you, isn’t it?” Dorian murmurs. “The history of this place.”

Seth sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is I’ve never felt more… _Dalish_ … than I do right now. Apparently, my perspective on this matter is completely alien to the rest of you.”

Dorian knows that feeling, and it’s not a pleasant one. Being “the Tevinter” in the group hasn’t always been easy. He and Seth have bonded over this in the past – their mutual _otherness._ But if Dorian has felt branded, it’s as the oppressor, not the oppressed. What Seth is feeling right now must carry an even sharper sting.

“And you call _me_ a savage,” the elf growls, but there’s a note of deliberate petulance in his voice that suggests the storm is clearing.

“I will allow that in this respect, the Dalish are more enlightened than the rest of us. As for you, Inquisitor, you are well on your way to combining the best traits of both our cultures. Now if I can just get you to appreciate cheese, you will be the very acme of civilization.”

Seth shudders. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Never say never. In the meantime, what do you propose to do about our little problem? We can’t have an angry mother bear in such close proximity to one of our camps.”

“No, we can’t. Which is why Hill Camp will be packed up and moved immediately.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere that isn’t here. Watcher’s Canyon, maybe. Fairbanks found it serviceable enough. As for the bear, I’ll ask Clan Teheris to have a few hunters keep watch over her until the cubs are old enough to fend for themselves. I don’t want any of our soldiers eying that rare white pelt and seeing gold.”

“Sensible enough.”

Seth narrows his eyes, as if he half suspects Dorian is making fun of him.

“What? You didn’t expect me to try to talk you into killing it? Need I remind you that I’m the one who stopped you and Cassandra from offing Maggie and her siblings?”

They both glance instinctively at the wolf, and she pricks her ears and whines.

“Don’t say things like that in front of her,” the elf scolds in a whisper.

“She was there.”

Seth crouches, and the wolf bounds up to him, tail wagging furiously. “I suppose I ought to apologize to Johnson,” he mutters as he scratches Maggie’s ears.

“You should. Tyrant doesn’t suit you. Besides, all that scowling will give you wrinkles.”

“Still, I question the skill of any scout who doesn’t know a nursing bear when he sees one.”

“I’m rather sorry you told me about that. Just you watch: the next time we fight a bear, I’ll be so distracted that I won’t be able to defend myself. Imagine the time Josephine will have with _that_ letter. _Dear Magister and Lady Pavus, the Inquisition regrets to inform you that Dorian was mauled by a bear. He died surrounded by his friends, muttering something about teats. Please find enclosed the Pavus birthright and this commemorative stuffed bear.”_

Seth snorts and shakes his head, brushing a quick kiss across Dorian’s lips. “We’d better get moving if we’re going to get this place packed up before nightfall.”

“An elegant solution,” Dorian says, looping his arm through Seth’s and starting back toward the ruins. “Though I do feel compelled to point out how marvellous a white bearskin would look in place of a certain Antivan rug…”


	4. Fine art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for a little light smut. From Seth's POV for a change...

Seth wakes with the sun in his eyes. A thin shaft of light cuts through the stained glass windows, striking him full in the face; he squints and rolls over. Now the beam falls on the body asleep at his side, and Seth pauses to admire the view. Dorian is lying on his stomach, one arm tucked up under his pillow, bedclothes pooled low around his hips. His back is a broad canvas of smooth, dark skin over toned muscle. It’s a thing of beauty, and Seth can’t help touching, fingers drifting appreciatively over the contours of his sleeping lover’s body. He starts at the curve of the shoulder, tracing a path up and over the trapezoid and along the shoulder blade. Then he settles into the trough of Dorian’s spine, following the trail down to where the swell of his backside begins, peeking tantalizingly above the sheets.

He’s sublime, and the way that shaft of sunlight falls on him – it’s as though the gods themselves are bidding Seth to appreciate their works.

Who is he to deny the gods?

He tugs gently at the sheets, sliding the crisp white linen over the generous curve of Dorian’s backside with the reverence of a sculptor revealing his finest work. And it _is_ art. Minstrels have written songs for less. Though he tries to hide it, timing his exercises for when his lover is elsewhere, Dorian puts a great deal of work into his body, and it shows. This is an arse you could bounce arrows off of, and Seth would defy any red-blooded male to gaze upon it unmoved. Certainly he’s moved, stiffening beneath the sheets, and it’s all he can do not to mount his lover then and there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s woken Dorian in such a fashion, and he’s never heard any complaints.

Seth has had his share of romantic partners. He’s pretty and he knows it, and his natural reserve seems only to heighten his appeal, though he’s not sure why. His lovers have always been beautiful, or seductive, or both. But no one has ever awakened his desire the way Dorian does. The jittering pulse. The shortness of breath. He can drive himself to distraction just daydreaming of Dorian’s kiss. And that was before the man came to his bed. Before Dorian _did things_ to him, things he’d never experienced before and didn’t even know were possible. It has occasionally occurred to Seth that his betrothed might secretly be a desire demon. If so, he’s completely fine with it – although a wiser man might be troubled by just how thoroughly he’s wrapped around his lover’s finger. It’s not a position he’s used to, and it’s humbling, to say the least.

He’s been staring a long time. The sun is rising fast, brushing that beautiful back in a warm copper glow. Seth can’t restrain himself any longer; he brings his mouth to Dorian’s shoulder. The skin beneath his lips is soft and pampered; the scent spicy and unmistakably masculine. Seth presses another kiss below the first one, and another below that, each a little firmer than the one before. The tip of his tongue grazes his lover’s skin, and at last the body beneath him stirs.

“ _Mmm._ ” He stretches, flexing his shoulders; Seth can’t help raking his teeth gently over the knotted flesh. Dorian arches his neck, inviting Seth to nip at the tender spot behind his ear. Then he rolls over, a smirk hitching one corner of his full mouth. “Good morning to _you_ , Inquisitor.”

There’s more than a hint of smugness in his voice, but Seth is too caught up to be bothered, trailing open-mouthed kisses down Dorian’s stomach. By the time he reaches his navel, Dorian is ready for him, skin shivering with anticipation, hardness brushing against Seth’s throat.

“It’s going to be a good day,” Dorian says with a contented sigh.

Caught up or no, Seth doesn’t rush. He may not have a mage’s bag of bedroom tricks, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s an attentive lover and an unapologetic tease, and he follows the signs, heeding every hitched breath, every subtle shift in position that tells him exactly how his lover wants it. Dorian twines his fingers in Seth’s hair, and he doesn’t spare his appreciation, uttering breathy moans of encouragement until he can’t even manage that. And when it’s over, he rolls onto his side and draws Seth tight against him, wrapping his limbs around his lover and whispering sweet nothings in Tevene. Seth can usually gauge his performance by how affectionate Dorian is afterwards, and judging from the smattering of kisses on the back of his neck, he’s done very well indeed.

“Thank you,” Dorian murmurs. “That was so good I even forgive you for waking me at this beastly hour.”

“My pleasure,” Seth says, and he means it.

“It’s quite vexing, you know,” Dorian says at length.

“What’s that?”

“How easily you reduce me to a quivering, gasping thing.” He sighs. “I’m completely in your thrall, you wicked man.”

A slow smile spreads across Seth’s face.

“Would you like me to return the favour?”

“You just did, _vhen’an_ ,” Seth says, pressing a kiss to the back of his lover’s hand.

He burrows deeper into the curve of Dorian’s body, and within moments, he’s asleep.


	5. Pulling the thread

Dorian slides into a chair across from the Iron Bull. The Qunari is a few tankards deep already, judging from the half-empty jug that sits at his elbow, but that’s nothing to him. And besides, alcohol loosens the tongue, and Dorian is looking for frankness today.

“Bull, if I ask you something awkward, will you promise to give me an honest answer?”

The Qunari grunts into his mug. “Yes, it’s gotten a little bigger, but it’s not too bad.”

There’s a pause.

“What?” says Dorian.

“What?” says Bull.

“You’d better not be referring to what I think you are,” Dorian says tartly, resisting the urge to twist around and look.

Bull grabs the jug and an empty tankard and starts pouring. “Why don’t you tell me what _you’re_ talking about and we’ll take it from there.”

Dorian drags the proffered mug across the table and sniffs it warily. Ale, and not too sour-smelling. The quality of drink at Herald’s Rest has improved considerably since the defeat of Corypheus. The brewers and vintners of Thedas are apparently feeling grateful. Not a moment too soon, either; Dorian’s tastes in alcohol were in danger of becoming decidedly _common_. “I wanted to ask you about the Inquisitor,” he says, taking a tentative sip.

Bull narrows his good eye and waits for Dorian to elaborate.

“You used to be Ben-Hassrath. You’re good at observing things. Has he seemed a little… _off_ … to you lately?”

“Off how?”

“Preoccupied. A little… intense, maybe.” Andraste’s arse, this is even more uncomfortable than he thought.

Bull’s eye narrows even further. “Why don’t you quit dancing around and say what you want to say?”

“There’s been”—Dorian throws a quick look over his shoulder to make sure no one is in earshot—“rather a lot of sex lately. At his initiation. And I do mean a _lot_.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” Bull rumbles. “That _is_ worrying. Do you think we should call the healers?”

Dorian scowls. “If you’re going to be sarcastic about it…”

“Don’t be like that, I’m just busting your balls. So he’s randy. Why does that bother you?”

“On the contrary, I’m having the time of my life. Especially since I hardly see him during the day, what with him working so much. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but Seth is… Seth. He’s not given to random mood swings. There must be something behind it.”

Bull gives him a long, penetrating look. A Ben-Hassrath look. It makes Dorian squirm even more. “Is this the part where you ask me if I think he’s cheating on you?”

“What?” Dorian splutters. “Don’t be absurd!”

“Good,” Bull growls, returning his attention to his mug. “Because I would’ve had to beat some sense into you.”

“No one cheats on Dorian Pavus.” This is a lie. Dorian has been cheated on nearly as many times as he’s cheated – to the extent that being unfaithful to someone you’re not technically in a relationship with counts as cheating. More to the point, Seth is not the cheating type, even if he weren’t madly in love with Dorian. Which he is. _Obviously_. “I have no fears on that score.”

“You guys are engaged now,” Bull points out. “Isn’t that part of the deal – being giddy in the pants?”

 _Giddy in the…?_ Dorian lets it go. “Perhaps, but that’s not the only odd thing about his behaviour lately. The other day, he took a strip off one of the scouts for not being an expert on bear anatomy. And when we bought the villa, he became very emotional.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds like he’s knocked up.”

Dorian scowls again. “Are you going to take this seriously or not?”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“The point is, I’m starting to wonder if these little episodes are connected somehow. If there’s some common thread I’m not seeing.”

Bull hitches a meaty shoulder. “Maybe it’s just his way of dealing with all the crap he’s been through, now that he finally has a chance. It happens sometimes with guys who’ve been through the shit. Takes ‘em a while to settle down, find a new normal.”

Dorian considers that. “I suppose that could be it. The last time he was this amorous was right after Corypheus was defeated. And that night at Halamshiral, after he saved the empress…”

“Yeah, you don’t have to tell me. I had the room next to yours.”

“Oh dear.” Dorian can’t help smirking at the memory. “I suppose we did make a bit of noise, didn’t we? Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was good for me, too.” He winks.

“Oh no, you didn’t… You _did._ ” _Vishante kaffas._ It’s going to be a while before he gets _that_ image out of his head. “In future, you can feel free to keep that sort of information to yourself.”

“Says the guy who’s going on about how randy his fiancé is. How do you think he’d feel if he knew you were telling me this stuff?”

Dorian winces. “I expect he wouldn’t like it. I take no pleasure in betraying his confidence, but I’m genuinely starting to worry that something is going on with him, and we both know he’s not exactly forthcoming about such things.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“I have.” Only last night, in fact. He found Seth out on the balcony, his gaze a million miles away. He seemed a little melancholy, but when Dorian asked him about it, Seth assured him it was nothing. And when Dorian tried to press the matter, he quickly found himself in a state of undress, being herded toward the bed by a very handsy elf. “He was evasive,” Dorian summarizes.

The Qunari pauses for a moment, sipping his ale reflectively. “When did you first notice this?”

“It started a couple of weeks ago, I’d say.”

Bull grunts. “Can’t think of anything special about two weeks ago.”

“There was a letter from his keeper,” Dorian muses. He’d forgotten about it until now. “He did seem unusually subdued after he read it. I thought perhaps some bad news from his clan, but he insisted that wasn’t the case.”

“You’ll drive yourself crazy guessing. Just talk to him.”

Dorian sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Assuming I can ever catch him. You’d think there was still a war going on, with all the time he spends shut up with his advisors.”

Bull’s glance lifts over his shoulder, and Dorian twists around to find Cole coming down the stairs. “Hey, Cole,” the Qunari calls amiably. “How’s it going?”

The spirit fixes him with that painfully earnest gaze. “Duty before pleasure, in all but this. One thing for myself. _I deserve to be happy._ ”

Bull stares at him blankly for a second. Then he gives the spirit a thumbs-up. “Good for you.”

“Maker’s breath,” Dorian mutters. “Please tell me you didn’t set him up with another prostitute.”

“Never again.” Bull takes another swig of ale. “But about the Inquisitor... I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s spent the past two years fighting a war. Being the saviour. Now that's over. He's probably feeling a bit...”

“Lost.”

“Exactly. So he’s working his ass off, proving to himself he’s still got a role to play. The rest of it is probably just stress.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable analysis. Insightful, even. So why can’t Dorian shake the feeling that he’s still missing something?

“You worry too much, big guy,” Bull says, thumping him on the shoulder. “Especially about him.”

“Well, _that’s_ certainly true.” And besides, if all he has to fret about is an insatiable lover… There are certainly worse fates.

“To getting laid on the regular,” Bull says, hoisting his mug.

Dorian can most definitely drink to that.


	6. Horror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Halloween treat.

“My, my,” says a familiar sultry voice. “What have we here?”

Dorian starts at the sound, his quill scratching a ragged line across the page. He frowns in irritation and crosses out the entry he’d been making in his journal. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he says. “A tad engrossed, I’m afraid.” He probably should have set wards at the door – this place is meant to be secret, after all – but he’s been expecting her.

“So I see,” Morrigan says, taking in the surrounding bookshelves with the appraising eye of a sommelier in a cellar full of rare vintages. “Nor can I blame you. ‘Tis everything you said and more.” She sounds surprised, as if she half suspected Dorian was pulling her leg about an ancient library secreted away in the bowels of Skyhold. She circles his desk, head tilted as she scans the titles of some of his more precious finds. “The _Compendium Arcanum_ , no less,” she says, trailing a covetous finger along its spine.

“You know it?”

“One of Mother’s favourites.”

“Rubbish.” Dorian pauses. “Wait, you are joking?”

Morrigan’s mouth curls just short of a smile. “I am not.”

Dorian is half annoyed, half pleased. This is the reason he invited her down here, after all. The witch knows more ancient lore than anyone he’s ever met, even without the benefit of what she’s gleaned from the Well of Sorrows. And for all his obvious brilliance, after months of attempting to catalogue the contents of this arcane study, Dorian has hit a wall. You can’t catalogue what you can’t read, and some of these books are penned in languages Dorian can’t even identify.

“I ought to rebuke you for keeping this place hidden from me for so long,” Morrigan says, drifting over to the nearest shelf. “But I understand the caution. The Inquisitor is wise to keep this place secret. Ancient magics linger here.”

A dwarf could tell you that. Ages have passed since anyone last occupied Skyhold, yet the study remains untouched. The covers of these books should be cracked and crumbled, the paper all but dust. The wooden shelves should have rotted and buckled. At the very least, the bloody _candles_ should have gone out; instead they flicker away, never diminishing, throwing an eerie amber glow over the skulls tucked here and there among the books. It would be downright creepy were it not for the treasure trove of knowledge cramming these shelves.

Morrigan glances over her shoulder. “Is your affianced aware that you have invited me into the sanctum?”

“He is.”

“And does he approve?”

“You wouldn’t be here without his blessing.”

 _Blessing_ is something of a stretch. More accurately, he has Seth’s grudging permission. The elf wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea. _I trust her with a great many things_ , _but I wouldn’t put it past her to pocket something when you’re not looking._ Dorian wouldn’t put it past her either, which is why he intends to keep a close eye on the witch. Their relationship has come a long way – she’s even forgiven him for that time he threw her off a two thousand-foot cliff – but he’s under no illusions about where her priorities lie. She would cheerfully clobber him over the head with a candlestick and walk away with the _Compendium_ if she thought it worth her while.

“The rules are these,” Dorian says. “We work as a team. There will be no solo projects. And these tomes do not leave this room under any circumstances. In return, you may keep as many notes as you like.”

“Yes, yes,” Morrigan says with an impatient gesture. “You have already laid out your terms. I have delayed my departure from Skyhold expressly for this, so let us get on with it.”

Dorian explains the logic of what he’s done so far – which books have been catalogued, and which have yet to be touched. “That shelf over there is where I’ve been putting the ancient elven volumes.”

“Then that is where I shall begin. You are fortunate, Pavus, to have my expertise to draw upon.”

He gives her a wry look. “Are you really going to take credit for the knowledge you gleaned from a drink of water?”

“How I came to it matters not. The point is, I alone can read these tomes. Which means you and I are very likely the first humans ever to access the mysteries they contain. ‘Tis exciting, is it not?”

He can’t deny that it is, and they share a rare smile, both of them willing to drop their guards long enough to enjoy the moment.

Morrigan begins her perusal, plucking a volume at random. “I am surprised the Inquisitor did not ask his _elven expert_ to translate these tomes.”

Dorian is a little surprised himself, and inordinately pleased. “I’m not sure he ever fully trusted Solas. Which now seems wise, given his abrupt departure.”

“And you have no idea where he is now?”

Dorian hitches a shoulder indifferently. “Running a school for magically-inclined hobos? Good riddance, I say.”

Morrigan starts to answer – only to cry out in surprise, pages fluttering as the book in her hands tumbles to the floor. Dorian whirls in time to see an arcane horror rising like smoke from the pages at her feet. This turn of events would be alarming enough if either of them had a weapon, but they do not - which admittedly feels like something of an oversight just now.

He wreathes his hands in blue light and hurls a bolt of dispelling magic at the creature, distracting it long enough for Morrigan to leap away. Then he lunges for the door, intending to call for help, but Morrigan throws herself in his path. “No! This place must remain secret!”

He flattens them both against a bookcase just as a withering volley of spirit energy spirals past, the candles guttering in its wake. “I’m quite certain the Inquisitor would prefer that we _live_ ,” he growls, but Morrigan’s having none of it, shoving him out of the way and hitting the horror with another dispel.

To say the quarters are close would be an understatement, and Dorian gets an eyeful of dead mage. The thing was a magister, judging from the robes, but being consumed by a pride demon has done nothing for his complexion. The flesh is grey and withered, like fruit that’s been left in the sun for too long; it sags from the cheekbones in mottled folds. The lips have melted away entirely, leaving a grisly snarl of rotting teeth, and the eyes glow with the feral madness of the possessed. Also, it _stinks_.

“Distract it!” Morrigan cries.

“What, shall I juggle? Do a little dance?” He ducks to avoid a spiral of spirit energy, cursing bitterly in Tevene and wracking his brain for a spell that won’t reduce his precious books to ash or soak them beyond redemption. He tries to take cover behind the desk, but of course that’s absurd, and the horror just flits over it and lines Dorian up for another blast. There’s nowhere to run, and Dorian braces himself for that uniquely excruciating brand of pain – only to have the ground shake beneath him as a massive beast slams into the dead magister like a battering ram, sending it crashing into the shelves. Morrigan has become a she-bear, and a very large one at that, a thousand pounds of muscle and hide hardening her against the demon’s attacks.

Dorian sighs wistfully. “You have _got_ to teach me that.”

Morrigan is in no condition to reply. Instead she takes a swipe at the horror, shredding its robes to ribbons; the pride demon inside shrieks in fury. She won’t kill it that way, of course, but by this point Dorian has recovered his wits enough to settle on a plan of attack, calling a crackling ball of lightning to his fingertips and brandishing it at Morrigan. She takes her cue, lunging out of the way, and Dorian slams the arcane horror square in the chest, burning a hole through flesh and bone. The smell is enough to make him gag – he is _never_ going to get that out of the carpet – but he keeps at it, raking the demon with lashing tongues of chain lightning. Morrigan waits for the crackling to subside before charging again, and Dorian weakens the demon’s counterattack with another dispel.

They carry on like that – Morrigan keeping the demon occupied while Dorian readies another spell – and it turns out to be a highly effective partnership. Not _quite_ as flashy as the time he rode dragon-Morrigan into battle, and Dorian's attacks are considerably weaker than they would be with a staff, but they grind away, and after an exhausting minute-and-a-half, the demon dissolves into threads of smoke.

Dorian flops onto his back, starfished on the floor, while Morrigan shifts back to human form. There’s a nasty burn along the back of her upper arm, and she sighs. “That’s going to leave a scar.”

The study will be scarred, too. Several of the shelves are shattered beyond repair, and books lie scattered everywhere. “The first book you touch,” Dorian mutters from the floor. “The very first book, and you unleash a fucking arcane horror.”

She clucks her tongue. “‘Tis hardly _my_ fault. This is _your_ cave of wonders, is it not?”

Dorian lies there a moment longer, still catching his breath. Then he says, “Drink?”

“I believe I shall, yes.”

“Excellent choice.” He picks himself up and dusts off his backside, already wondering how he’s going to break the news to Seth. _How was your day? Oh, you know. Quiet day in the study, cataloguing, reading, fighting arcane horrors bare-handed. You?_

“We shall resume tomorrow, then?” Morrigan asks.

“Certainly, only next time…”

“Staffs?”

“Staffs.”


	7. The ex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, if your stress level is even half where mine is at then you need some EMERGENCY FLUFF.

_An old friend_ , Seth had said. _A fellow hunter from Clan Lavellan._ He mentioned precisely nothing about an ex-lover, but the moment the pretty Dalish boy walks through the door of Herald’s Rest, Dorian knows that’s exactly what he is.

It’s not just that he’s lovely, though he is: bright blue eyes, long auburn hair, high cheekbones traced with _vallaslin._ Not just the way Seth grins when he sees him, or the obvious warmth in their embrace as they greet one another. It’s the subtle tension in Seth’s smile when he introduces his “old friend” to his betrothed – and the unmistakably appraising look in those bright blue eyes when they meet Dorian’s.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Athren says.

“All true, I’m afraid. Except the part about the silk scarves. That’s just salacious rumour.”

Athren's smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Shall we sit?” Seth gestures at their table. The Inquisitor thought it best to meet his friend in a casual setting, so as to spare him the formalities of a more official reception. But this is still Skyhold, and the patrons of Herald’s Rest aren’t shy about staring. Everyone seems quite curious about the Inquisitor’s clanmate, and Dorian can’t help wondering how many of them have reached the same conclusion he has.

It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. The past is the past, and it’s not as though he imagined he was Seth’s first. On top of which, this is the first time a member of the Inquisitor’s clan has come to Skyhold. Seth misses them terribly, and he’s been looking forward to this visit for weeks. Dorian should be happy for him. He _wants_ to be happy for him. But the way his _amatus’s_ face lit up when the other man walked through the door… It squirms in Dorian’s stomach like a meal that doesn’t quite agree with him.

“Look at you,” Athren says, grinning across the table at Seth. “If it weren’t for the _vallaslin_ , I wouldn’t even know you for a Dalish. Is that silk you’re wearing?”

Seth flushes. “I’m afraid so.”

“And your _hair_.”

“Wait,” Dorian says, his curiosity piqued. “What about his hair?” As far as he knows, Seth has had the same haircut since joining the Inquisition. Which is to say, not much of one – not that he really needs it. The elf’s silver hair has the most effortlessly swept-back look, mostly because he runs his hand through it so often. It would fall in his eyes if he let it, but instead it just stands there looking gloriously tousled. _Hero hair_ , Sera calls it, and she’s not wrong. “Was it very different before?”

Athren laughs. “You could say that. It came down to his shoulders.”

Dorian stares at his lover in surprise. “To your _shoulders_? I find that difficult to imagine.” Difficult – and more than a little intriguing.

“Most of it, anyway,” Athren goes on. “This part was shaved.” He reaches across the table and rubs the left side of Seth’s head, near his temple – a gesture entirely too entitled for Dorian’s liking.

“It sounds very Dalish,” he says. There’s a bite in his voice that he doesn't intend, and it gets Athren's back up.

“Probably why they made him cut it,” the elf says coolly. “Wouldn’t want the Herald of Andraste to look like a savage.”

Seth just laughs. “What are you on about? You know perfectly well that I cut it before attending the Conclave.”

“So as not to offend the humans.”

“So as not to draw attention, since I was meant to be spying.” Smiling, he runs a hand through his short-cropped locks. “But I do miss it sometimes.”

“Why don’t you grow it back?” Athren says. There’s a note of challenge in his voice, but if Seth hears it, he pretends not to.

“Dorian would never let me.”

“Nonsense.” Dorian slips his own fingers through Seth’s hair, and if it looks a trifle possessive, he’s not sorry for it. “I quite like the idea, actually. I imagine you’d look terribly sexy with wild Dalish hair, and just think of how deliciously shocking it would be the next time you’re invited to Halamshiral.”

Seth laughs. “Almost as shocking as my being betrothed to an evil Tevinter,” he says, brushing a quick kiss across Dorian’s lips.

A guileless gesture, or a calculated one? Dorian isn’t sure, but he instantly feels better. _You’re being silly_ , he scolds himself. _Jealousy is beneath you, and besides, this is_ Seth. Hasn’t he just been telling Bull how perfectly secure he feels in his relationship? In fact…

“You two must have a great deal to catch up on,” Dorian says, rising. “I’ll leave you in peace. It was a pleasure meeting you, Athren, and I do hope we’ll have a chance to speak again before you depart.”

He spends the next couple of hours in the library, perusing a spellbook and trying very hard not to think about Dalish elves – a task rendered difficult by the recurring image of his _amatus_ with long hair. Not just any long hair, either; the shaved, braided, beaded sort he’s seen on those wild elves in the woods. It’s impossibly distracting, so after a while he gives up and heads back to their quarters, intending to pour some wine, sink into a hot bath, and let his imagination run amok. Instead he is surprised to discover that his intended has beaten him home. Seth is out on the balcony watching the sunset, arms propped pensively against the railing.

“Back so soon?” Dorian asks, handing him a glass of wine. “I thought you’d be enjoying your time with Athren.”

“I was, at least for a while, but it turns out his visit was more business than pleasure.” He sounds annoyed, perhaps even a little hurt.

“Oh?” Dorian eyes his lover with concern. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine. It’s old news, really. Something from my life before.” He shakes his head, staring out over the mountains. “I suppose that’s what bothers me most about it. My clan doesn’t seem to understand how fundamentally my life has changed. For better or worse, I’m not the same person I was before. I just wish they could accept that.”

“They want you to return?”

Seth sighs and nods. “I’ve already told them no. More than once, but they just won’t listen. They even tried to get Ellana to come out here to convince me, but she refused.”

“So they sent your ex instead.”

Seth pauses. “Who said anything about Athren being my ex?”

“Isn’t he?”

The elf starts to answer, but then he hesitates. “Does it matter?”

“No.” Dorian takes a swallow of wine.

Blue-green eyes study him for a long moment. “Do you want to talk about this? We said we weren’t going to, but if you’ve changed your mind…”

“No,” Dorian says again, rather more firmly this time. If they talk about Seth’s past, they’ll be obliged to talk about his, and that is something Dorian definitely does _not_ want. “I’ve no desire to run my knickers up the flagpole, thank you. Not today, at any rate.”

Seth brings a hand to Dorian’s face, fingers drifting soothingly over his temple. “It’s up to you, _vhen’an_. But I want you to know, nothing you could say would change how I feel about you.”

Dorian laughs darkly. “Are you quite sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” Seth says, and he kisses him. Sweetly at first, reassuring - and then hungry, until he's backing Dorian into the wall as he’s done so many times already this week. Dorian starts to wonder if perhaps he’s solved a mystery… only to be distracted yet again by Seth’s hair, soft and thick between his fingers.

“ _Amatus_ ,” he whispers between kisses. “About your hair. Would you consider… perhaps just for a change of pace...?”

Seth snorts softly. “We’ll see,” he says, and he steers Dorian inside.


	8. A Memory: The new guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awfully quiet out there for a while now. Does that mean we're running out of steam on this?

He’d been in Haven less than a week, and already Dorian Pavus was causing a fuss.

Not just because he was Tevinter, though that certainly didn’t help. His being a mage wasn’t a point in his favour either, at least not with Sera or Bull. Or for that matter Vivienne, who’d hoped to be the only mage among the inner circle. Or with Solas, who took great pride in being the smartest person in the room and was less than thrilled at the appearance of a rival for that title. Others had more specific grievances. Blackwall thought he was a spoiled brat. Josephine complained that he didn’t take matters seriously. Cullen distrusted him, Cassandra found him obnoxious, and Leliana didn’t like the way he flirted with the Herald of Andraste.

The Herald, for his part, liked it just fine. It was harmless, after all, and quite meaningless. Dorian’s flirting was obviously second nature. He was ridiculously attractive, and Seth was just vain enough to enjoy his attention. And besides, it was nice to be treated like a person instead of a symbol.

Dorian was a symbol, too, of everything Thedas hated. Tevinter, mage, rich, beautiful – the son of a magister, no less. Some of the workers literally spat when he walked by. Seth would have felt sorry for him were it not for the fact that Dorian seemed to relish it all, wearing his outcast status like a badge of pride.

Just now, he was making a great show of moving his tent, since apparently the soldiers who’d set up camp had located it too close to the latrine “in defiance of common sense and the barest concept of hygiene.” That he accomplished this mundane task by means of a flashy display of magic was just the icing on the cake.

“Maker, he’s a pain in the balls,” Blackwall muttered, observing the performance with a scowl.

“So you’ve said.” Seth was only half listening, sifting through the items he’d looted from some bandits earlier.

“Can you believe the way he talked to the horse master?”

Seth smiled to himself.

Blackwall noticed, and he didn’t approve. “I don’t see what’s funny about it. Maybe you didn’t catch his meaning, but he slagged every horse in Ferelden. Not to mention implying that any old servant could do Dennet’s job.”

Seth had caught his meaning just fine, and it had been all he could do to keep his expression neutral. It was brilliant. Not just what Dorian said, but the way he said it, examining his fingernails in apparent boredom while he offered to bring a random servant from Minrathous to look after the Inquisition’s mounts. _Tevinter horses are the finest in the world_ , he’d declared offhandedly. He might as well have taken off his expensive leather glove and slapped Dennet in the face with it. “That was deliberate,” Seth said. “He was goading him, and it worked. Thanks to Dorian, the Inquisition now has a horse master. One with something to prove, no less.”

Blackwall grunted. “Still. He didn’t need to insult the man to get his cooperation.”

Seth let the matter drop, returning his attention to the handful of rings and amulets he’d looted. Most of them could be sold for coin, but one in particular caught his eye, a gold ring so shiny it looked to have been freshly cast. In Seth’s experience, that usually meant magic, and he decided to get a second opinion.

Dorian was in his newly-relocated tent, adding pillows to his bedroll. He’d been carting them around in his pack all day, apparently, possibly at the expense of water. “Do you have a moment?” Seth called through the tent flap.

“For you, Herald, always.” He beckoned, and Seth ducked inside.

The tent was pleasantly warm, and filled with Dorian’s scent – alluring, spicy, like the man himself. It felt strangely intimate being in here, and a little disorienting. Seth cleared his throat. “Better?” he asked, gesturing at their surroundings.

“Now that I’m no longer required to marinate in _eau-de-latrine_? Yes, rather.”

“Your nose must be more sensitive than mine.”

“I daresay.” His gaze drifted over Seth’s features. There was something faintly predatory in those hazel eyes, and Seth was suddenly very aware of the close quarters. He felt like cornered prey. And Creators preserve him, he _liked_ it.

“Thank you for earlier,” he said. “With Dennet.”

“Of course. What good is being a spoiled Tevinter if you can’t use it to your advantage?”

“You enjoy getting people’s backs up, don’t you?”

“I certainly enjoyed getting _his_ back up. The man called you a _halla-rider_. He needed to be put in his place.”

Seth paused. He hadn’t realized anyone else noticed that, let alone took offence on his behalf. “You were defending my honour, then?” he asked with a wry smile.

“Naturally. I am your mage in shining armour. Now, what have you brought me? A ring?” Those beautiful eyes met his again. “Are you courting me, Herald?”

_Don’t blush. Don’t you dare blush._

Seth blushed.

Dorian’s smile widened. “Look at you, turning that fetching shade of pink. You’re quite adorable, you know.” He was like a cat with a mouse in its paws, but thankfully he spared Seth further torment and turned his attention to the ring. “Enchanted, definitely. If you give me a few minutes, I can probably work out the spell.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

“And here I thought you came to bask in my dulcet tones.” He sat cross-legged on his bedroll and patted the spot beside him, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation, Seth sat. His shoulder brushed Dorian’s, and as the mage started casting, a tingle ran over his skin. The magic, obviously.

“What are you doing?” Seth asked. “Specifically, I mean?”

Dorian glanced up, looking a little taken aback.

“Is something the matter?”

“On the contrary, I’m pleasantly surprised that you’d ask.”

“Is it so unusual?”

“Yes. I’m far more accustomed to fear or outright hostility. I expect any mage would say the same.” Turning his attention back to the ring, he started casting again. “As to your question, magic is like magnetism. It has poles. Opposing forces. By subjecting the ring to a series of pulses, I can narrow down the type of magic used here.”

Seth watched, intrigued, as Dorian waved a hand over the ring cradled in his palm, calling a series of heatless flames to his fingers, blue and green and red. Fascinating as these arcane forces were, it was the hand itself that mesmerized him, the fluid grace of those long, elegant fingers. A nobleman's hand, soft and unspoiled; Seth couldn’t help imagining what those fingers would feel like drifting across his skin.

“ _Hmm_ ,” Dorian said, and his voice thrummed along Seth’s spine. “I think… yes. It’s reacting to spirit energy.”

“Reacting how? I don’t see anything.” Seth instinctively looked closer, and suddenly their faces were an inch apart. Dorian’s scent washed over him anew, making him a little lightheaded. And when he looked up, the other man’s eyes were on him, searching. Warm hazel eyes flecked with gold. Full mouth curled just short of a smile. Creators, he was beautiful...

If he pushed Dorian back onto his bedroll right now, would he meet any resistance? The fact that the question even occurred to him meant he needed to leave this tent. Right now.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being a pest. I’ll leave you to it.” And before Dorian could react, he was on his feet and ducking through the tent flap, heat rising to his face and fireflies swirling madly in his stomach.

Perhaps all this flirting wasn’t so meaningless after all. In which case, it wasn’t harmless, either. Apparently the Herald of Andraste could add himself to the list of people who had a problem with the new guy.

How big a problem remained to be seen.


	9. Good clean fun

“Varric.”

The dwarf looks up from his stack of bills, visibly grateful for the distraction. “What can I do for you, Sparkler?”

“I need your help with something.”

There must be something in the way he says it, because the dwarf is immediately wary, eyes narrowing. “Why do I get the sense I’m not going to like it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Dorian lies. “It’s nothing at all, really. A small favour. Hardly a favour at all, in fact.”

“Right. Well, you’ve got me convinced.”

“An urgent matter of hygiene has arisen.”

“A what?”

“Hygiene,” Dorian repeats gravely.

“This… sounds personal.”

“It is indeed.”

“Uh, in that case, are you sure you want to—”

“I’m afraid Maggie is quite overdue for her bath, and I can’t stand it any longer. Something must be done.”

Varric is laughing now, both hands raised in a warding gesture. “Hang on. You want me to help you bathe the Inquisitor’s wolf? Why in Andraste’s name would I do that? For that matter, why would you?”

These are perfectly reasonable questions. Indeed, Dorian has been asking himself much the same thing for two days now. But his poor nose is at its wits’ end. “I can’t take it anymore,” he says, dropping onto the bench across from Varric and putting his head in his hands. “It’s this blasted trip to Val Royeaux. The Inquisitor has never been away for this long before. He’s the one who bathes her, and if I’d had any idea what two weeks of unwashed fur would smell like, I would have insisted he take her with him.”

Varric laughs again. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, but it can. She’s a terribly messy eater, and lately she’s taken to rolling around in the mud after the horses have been through. At this point, she smells like something that’s been hauled out of the Fallow Mire. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. You have to help me, Varric.”

“Why don’t you just ask one of the servants to do it?”

“I tried that. Ten days ago.” Not to mention several times since. The servants were willing enough, even going so far as to get everything ready – only to have Maggie decline the proposal with a flash of her teeth. “It seems she’s rather particular about who she lets toss her into the tub.”

Varric’s eyebrows fly up. “So you want _me_ to do it?”

“She likes you. And she likes me. Between the two of us…”

“I don’t know, Sparkler. It sounds like a terrible idea. Wolves and bathtubs do not mix.”

Which was more or less what Morrigan said when Dorian asked her. _If you would have a creature of the wilds in your home, you must be prepared for her to act like one. And smell like one._ When Dorian inquired whether that philosophy explained her own bathing habits, he narrowly avoided being clubbed over the head with a book.

“Very well,” he says coolly. “I’ll do it myself. But if I’m killed, you can be the one to explain to the Inquisitor why you refused a friend who’s saved your life half a dozen times.”

Varric snorts and rubs his eyes. “All right, Sparkler, you win. But if we’re doing this, we’re gonna need reinforcements.”

Half an hour later, they’re installed in the garden with a washtub, a wolf, a Qunari, a fake Grey Warden, a spirit, a former templar, and a heckler.

That last one is Sera, who’s perched on the eaves with a bowl of grapes.

Maggie came along willingly enough, Dorian having duped her with the promise of a walk. He feels a little guilty for betraying her trust, but there was no help for it, and now she’s surrounded on all sides. She swishes her tail half-heartedly, as if she hopes this is some sort of game but strongly suspects that it isn’t.

“Right, men,” Blackwall says gravely. “This is a containment operation. We hold the perimeter at all costs. If she tries to make a run for it, tackle her.”

“Should we be wearing armour for this?” Varric wonders.

“No,” Cole says. “She won’t bite us. We’re her pack.”

“We _were_ her pack,” Bull rumbles. “Pretty sure she’s gonna be pissed with us after this.”

“Oi,” a voice calls from the rooftops, “is this show gonna start or what?” A grape pelts Dorian in the back of the head. He turns around and makes a hand gesture, which is promptly returned.

Cullen seeks a last-minute clarification of his orders. “Once we collapse the ring, who actually tosses her in the tub?”

“Bull,” says Dorian.

“Dorian,” says everyone else.

Dorian sighs. “Glad that’s settled.”

“All right, then,” Blackwall says grimly. “March.”

Slowly, the six of them start walking toward Maggie, and at first she’s not too alarmed, wagging her tail hopefully. “That’s right,” Dorian croons soothingly. “Group hugs. Group hugs, Maggie.” But the wolf is no fool, and she’s fought alongside each and every one of them. She knows their tells, and as soon as Bull lowers himself into a crouch, she bolts.

“Hold the line!” Cullen cries, but it’s no good: Maggie has spied a weakness in their fortifications. The dwarf is a hurdle easily cleared, and she sails effortlessly over Varric’s head – to whoops and cheers from Sera. Mother Giselle has to leap out of the way to avoid being bowled over as Maggie streaks for the stairs, but before she can get there, Dorian throws up an ice wall, forcing her to change direction.

Bull charges after her in a flat-out sprint, but Maggie is too quick for him, and when she banks right at the last moment, he can’t check his momentum, blundering into the Inquisitor’s precious herb pots with an almighty crash of crockery. The wolf’s hairpin turn takes her right in front of Blackwall, and he leaps – missing by a mile and skidding face-first through the mud.

Cole tries a more diplomatic approach, throwing himself in the wolf’s path with his arms spread wide. “Stop, Maggie! We only want you to be clean! You like the water! You like—” The wolf jumps up, knocks the spirit flat on his back and keeps running, leaving muddy paw prints all over his tunic.

Cullen goes for the disciplinarian. “ _BAD DOG!_ ” he thunders. “ _Stop this at once!_ ” He points furiously at the ground, and for a second he almost has her. Maggie skids to a halt, ears pricked.

But there’s dissention in the ranks. “Boo!” Sera calls from the rooftop. “Don’t put up with that shite, Maggie! You got this!”

At which point the wolf decides this is a game after all. She crouches low on her forelegs, tail wagging, and when Cullen leaps at her, she bounds away. The commander loses his footing and topples arse-first into the tub, sending water sloshing over the sides, and now he’s stuck – plate armour being rather awkward in water – so Dorian goes over to help him. Which is a _terrible_ idea, because he’s nowhere near strong enough to haul a strapping templar in plate armour out of a tub of water, so now he’s in Cullen’s lap and they’re both soaked and while this vaguely resembles a certain intriguing dream Dorian had shortly after joining the Inquisition, it doesn’t quite hold the appeal now that it did then.

Maggie surveys the scene, ready for a new challenger, but no one presents himself. Blackwall lies on his back, caked with mud. Cole stares forlornly at his tunic – Dorian’s not entirely sure he realizes it can be washed – and Bull is picking broken branches out of his horns. Dorian and Cullen are sopping wet, and the tub lies in splinters, leaking soapy water all over the grass.

Maggie barks and wags her tail, and Sera breaks out in applause.

“So, we’re not telling the Inquisitor about this, right?” Bull says.

“Code of silence, men,” Blackwall intones from the grass. “Code of silence.”

Varric meet’s Dorian’s eye from across the courtyard. “Told you so, Sparkler,” he says, and Dorian sighs.


	10. Housewarming

“This requires careful planning,” Vivienne says gravely. “An event such as this must showcase the power of the Inquisition.”

“While serving as an occasion to reward our most loyal allies,” Josephine adds.

“And flaunt our impeccable taste,” Dorian finishes.

Seth’s glance cuts uneasily between the three of them. “I thought this was meant to be a small gathering among friends. To… warm the house?”

“Housewarming, my adorable savage,” Dorian corrects. “It’s tradition when one installs oneself in a new abode.”

“But we haven’t installed ourselves in the villa yet. It’s still full of spiders.”

“Details,” Dorian says with an airy wave. “The servants will take care of that.”

“What servants?”

“Indeed,” Vivienne says. “That is our first order of business. We must ensure your domestic personnel are of the highest calibre, with impeccable references. Fortunately, I have the appropriate connections. I will conduct the first round of interviews myself.”

“The catering will require a great deal of forward planning,” says Josephine. “The nearest chef of any repute is in Val Firmin. The logistics will be challenging.”

The elf gives a nervous little laugh. “You make it sound as if we’re mounting a siege.”

“Don’t be silly, Inquisitor,” she says crisply. “Transporting siege engines is far less complicated. You needn’t be concerned about the temperature of a trebuchet. But a red wine cannot be stored at the same temperature as a white, to say nothing of a cheese.”

“But I don’t even like—”

“Pay no attention to him,” Dorian says, slapping a hand over the elf’s mouth. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Vivienne scans the curtains in the main hall with a critical eye. “What are your thoughts on upholstery, my dear? I daresay you could do with some advice.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says coolly, “but matters of décor will remain strictly my prerogative.”

Seth glances at him. “And mine, presumably?”

“Hmm,” says Dorian.

Josephine is already scribbling away on her ledger. “I will prepare a first draft of the guest list. Leliana will need to review it, of course.”

Vivienne hums approvingly. “And I shall see to it the proper introductions are made with merchants in Val Royeaux. The finest cabinetmakers and upholsterers are by appointment only.”

“I have thoughts on the menu, Josephine,” Dorian says. “The wine list, especially.”

“Naturally.”

Seth frowns. “Will my input be required at any stage of the planning for _my_ housewarming party?”

There’s a beat of silence as all three of them stare at him. “The flowers?” Dorian offers.

“I need a drink,” Seth growls.

The discussion continues, and by the time Dorian realizes Seth wasn’t joking about the drink, the elf is long gone.

“The Inquisitor appears to be cross,” Dorian observes.

“He’ll recover,” Vivienne says with an elegantly dismissive gesture.

“Like it or not,” Josephine says, “he is the Inquisitor. Even a small gathering hosted in his name has profound political implications.”

Dorian is less concerned with political implications than with an opportunity to show these Orlesian fops how it’s really done. Still, he might have let this get a _trifle_ out of hand. “Excuse me, would you?” he says, and heads off to smooth some feathers.

Cole is just emerging from the tavern as Dorian heads in, and he stops to talk. “ _Dirthara-ma_ ,” he says, emphatically.

“Sorry?”

“ _Fenedhis lasa._ ”

Dorian frowns. “Cole, are you cursing at me?”

“Yes!” the spirit says brightly. “I’m helping. You said you wanted to learn Elven. The Inquisitor is full of so many wonderful angry words today!”

“How delightful,” Dorian sighs.

He finds Seth upstairs, brooding broodily with a full jug and an empty pint. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to Val Royeaux by now?” the elf says. “To see your tailor or something?”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for that.” He pauses. “Oh, you were being _sarcastic._ Silly me. But of course I’ll be seeing a tailor, as should you. One must keep up appearances.”

Seth pours himself a pint and gulps half of it down in a single go. Then he looks Dorian right in the eye and burps.

Dorian snorts softly. “Very droll, Inquisitor. If you think that’s going to get you off the hook, you’re mistaken.”

Seth scowls and drinks the rest of his ale.

“What is this about, _amatus_? You’ve done dozens of these events.”

“Exactly. This was supposed to be different. I thought the whole point of us buying the villa in the first place was having something that’s just for us. The _real_ us, not…” He makes an impatient gesture toward the keep. “Not _this_.”

“This is for us. We’ll have the final say on all the particulars. We’re simply taking advantage of the connections we have. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Don’t you see? If we let Josephine and Vivienne plan parties in our villa, then it’s just another outpost of the Inquisition. We might as well hang the Inquisition banner over the balcony right now. I thought… I hoped…” He shakes his head, as if struggling to find the words. “I’ve been away from my home for so long now that it’s not a home to me anymore. When we bought the villa, I thought…”

“That it would be home,” Dorian finishes. He’s beginning to see.

“A place to start our new life together, like we said. To get away from all this and just… _breathe_. I need that, Dorian. I don’t think I even realized how badly until we bought the villa, and now…”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says, reaching across the table and squeezing his lover’s hand. “I didn’t realize you felt this strongly about it. I was just excited to show it off, that’s all. To show _us_ off, I suppose. But I should have known you wouldn’t want that.”

“I just want you,” Seth says quietly.

Dorian’s heart floods. He leans across the table and draws Seth into a soft kiss. “You have me,” he murmurs. “And we’ll keep the villa just for us.”

The relief in those blue-green eyes is so touching that Dorian can’t help kissing him again.

“For us,” Seth says, “and for the people we care about. When we’re ready.”

“In which case, we ought to feather our little nest as soon as possible, don’t you agree? Not for a party, but for ourselves, so that we have a place to retreat when you need to.”

Seth smiles. “Does this mean I get a say in the décor after all?”

“Certainly, Inquisitor. I should be happy for your views on all matters of design.” He pauses. “Well... except for the rugs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW, for those who like a little more smut in their smut, I've posted an alternate version of Chapter 4 as a standalone fic called "Fine Art". It was actually the original version of Chapter 4, but since it was significantly more explicit than anything I've done for this series to date, I decided it didn't quite feel 'on-brand'. The link is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661568


	11. Revenge

“And finally,” Dorian says, “we have the library.” He stands aside, allowing his guests to feast their eyes on this, his favourite room in the villa. Josephine’s face lights up, and Leliana raises her eyebrows. Even Madame de Fer looks impressed, though of course she’s doing her best to hide it.

Dorian is exceedingly proud of this room, and pleased at the opportunity to show it off, especially after the housewarming fiasco. It’s not just that he’s presided over the décor with extra care – though he has, naturally. Every chair, table, and candelabrum has been situated _just so_ , with an eye to elegance and comfort. But in truth, the room was beautiful even before Dorian applied his considerable talents. The light is extraordinary, streaming through the butterfly windows and gleaming off polished wood and stone. And there’s something inherently peaceful about how it’s situated, giving onto the interior gardens in a way that invites quiet contemplation.

“What a magnificent room,” Josephine says. “I’m sure you will pass many pleasant hours here.”

“I do love what you’ve done with the furnishings, my dear,” Vivienne says, and then she pauses, allowing the inevitable _but_ to loom dramatically. “But the overall aesthetic is rather austere. The walls are practically bare.”

Dorian flashes a tight smile. “Keenly observed. In truth, the room is not quite finished. The Inquisitor and I spent rather a lot of time tussling over the proper organization of the books, with the result that we’re a trifle behind schedule on the rest.”

Leliana snorts softly. “It’s so like the two of you to argue over something like that. Does it really matter?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Vivienne and Dorian say in unison.

“Personally,” says Josephine, “I prefer to organize my books according to the colour and texture of the covers.”

The very idea makes Dorian vaguely nauseous, but he supposes it would be rude to say so. “The Inquisitor prefers to shelve alphabetically, whereas I insist upon sorting by subject first.”

“And who won the argument?” Josephine asks.

“Oh please,” Dorian says airily. “The Inquisitor did the only sensible thing and deferred to my superior judgement.”

He starts to say more, but just then, voices sound at the far end of the hallway, followed by a march of footsteps, and a moment later a servant appears in the library carrying a crate. He’s the first of many, a parade of them arriving with crates of various shapes and sizes.

“What’s this?” Dorian asks, more than a hint of apprehension in his voice.

“Inquisitor’s orders, my lord,” says one of the servants.

He can hear Seth’s voice now, and Sera’s, and the two of them stroll into the library with Maggie at their heels.

“—a bit elfy, though, innit?” Sera is saying.

“Maybe, but it’s traditional. No Dalish hunter would ever go without.”

“Would ever go without what, _amatus_?” Dorian asks, smiling as if his life depended on it.

“Oh, hello,” Seth says. “I didn’t realize you were all in here. Excellent timing. You can witness the unveiling.”

“Unveiling?” Vivienne arches an eyebrow. “How intriguing. And what are we unveiling, my dear?”

“My hunting trophies.”

“Your…?” It’s all Dorian can manage. His mouth has suddenly gone quite dry.

Seth tilts his head, giving Dorian a curious smile. “We’ve talked about this, _vhen’an._ ” He turns to Vivienne. “Dalish hunters keep trophies from all their proudest kills,” he explains, wearing that solemn expression he always gets when discussing matters of Dalish lore. “It’s one of our most sacred traditions. A way of honouring the animals that have given their lives and acknowledging the ways we are bound together, hunter and hunted. Each one represents a tale, and we recount them as part of our oral history.”

“What a lovely sentiment,” says Josephine, smiling her diplomat’s smile.

Seth considers the nearest crate, which a servant is busily prying open. “It’s been so strange not having them around. It didn’t seem quite appropriate to bring them to Skyhold, since it’s not really _mine_. Now that Dorian and I have a place of our own, I can finally reclaim them.”

The crate opens with a creak of wood, and the servant yanks out a few fistfuls of straw. Dorian swallows hard as she reaches inside…

_Please don’t let it be please don’t let it be…_

But it is. An animal head. Stuffed and glass-eyed and mounted on a slab of polished wood. An august ram, Dorian reckons, but he’s feeling a little too lightheaded to be thinking clearly.

“Oh,” says Josephine, smiling harder.

Dorian watches in mute horror as another head emerges from a crate. A bronto, of all things, even more hideous in death than it was in life. “Where d’ye want this one, Yer Worship?” the servant asks, hoisting the thing with some difficulty.

“Let’s try it on that wall, I think,” Seth says, pointing between two bookshelves.

Heads are hatching from their crates all over the room now, like so many horrible little demon spawn. Hyenas and bears, rams and phoenixes. Worse, there’s a rattle of wheels in the corridor, like a harbinger of doom, and a moment later a handcart appears with a truly massive crate.

“Oh!” Seth says brightly. “Is that the dragon or the druffalo?”

Vivienne’s eyes meet Dorian’s, and the mix of horror and pity and sheer malicious _glee_ he sees there is almost too much for him. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he murmurs.

“Sorry?” says Seth.

Dorian flutters a hand dismissively, his mind whirring in a state of mild panic as he tries to think of a diplomatic resolution to this crisis.

“It’s like a little forest in here now,” Sera observes.

“Yes, exactly.” Seth sighs contentedly. “It feels more like home already. I think I got the better end of the bargain, really.”

“What bargain is that?” Leliana inquires, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

“About the organization of the books,” Seth says. “I told Dorian he could have his way if he promised to make it up to me.”

Was _this_ what he had in mind? Dorian had assumed he meant sexual favours or something. “Now that you mention it,” he says, his voice edged with desperation, “alphabetical _is_ a perfectly acceptable means of organizing a library…”

“No, no, don’t worry,” Seth says, strolling over to the window. Sera joins him, and Leliana, and they chat quietly while the servants continue their work.

Dorian sinks into a chair, watching helplessly as his precious library becomes a museum of the macabre. He does recall Seth mentioning something about hunting trophies, but he’d assumed the elf meant a trinket or two. A bearskin rug, or a necklace made of out claws or something. But _this._ _Heads._ On the _wall._ Those horrid dead eyes staring at him from all directions—

“Have pity, Inquisitor,” Leliana laughs. “He can’t take much more of this.”

Seth is facing the window, but Dorian sees his shoulders start to shake, and a moment later Sera’s manic giggle bursts out of her like a flock of startled pigeons. “He looks like he’s going to cough up his own innards!” she howls, pointing at Dorian and hugging her ribs.

Seth can’t hold it together anymore. He dissolves into laughter, and now Leliana is laughing too, and Josephine, and even Vivienne smirks, shaking her head in admiration. “Well played, Inquisitor,” she says. “You quite had me.”

Dorian sags over himself in relief. _Every time. You fall for it every time…_ “You are such a bastard,” he murmurs into his lap.

Even the servants are snickering now. “What about this one, Your Worship?” one of them calls, holding a quillback head up against the wall. “Looks good here, yeah? Oh, she’s a _beauty_ this one.” Laughter all around. Seth meets Dorian’s eye and grins, and that dazzling smile of his is the only thing preventing Dorian from setting him on fire.

“Hilarious, Inquisitor,” Dorian says tartly.

Seth folds his arms and props himself against the wall. “Well, Sera? What’s your verdict?”

“All right, that’s a proper prank. But I wouldn’t get too big for your breeches. Prince Fancybits here is an easy target.”

“True enough,” the Inquisitor agrees, still grinning even as Dorian approaches him with a scowl that would curdle milk.

“This is about the books, isn’t it? This is your revenge.”

“No,” says Seth.

“Yes,” says Dorian.

“Yes,” says Seth.

“And now that you’ve had your fun, just what do you plan to do with all these heads?”

“Sell them back to the merchant, hopefully.”

“And if he won’t take them back?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to keep them. Should we organize them alphabetically, or by subject?”

“ _Such_ a bastard,” Dorian mutters, and he heads over to the shelves to reorganize the bloody books.


	12. A Memory: The scientist

Dorian had been staring at the Herald of Andraste for a solid five minutes when Varric said, “Someone’s got a crush.”

“Sorry?” Dorian sat up a little straighter, affecting a nonchalance that was entirely unconvincing. Luckily for him, the dwarf was too distracted to notice.

“The barmaid.” Varric inclined his craggy jaw in the direction of the hearth, where a pretty girl stood chatting with the elf. The inn was full to bursting that night, and the woman really ought to have been seeing to her customers, but her attention belonged wholly to the Herald. Not that Dorian could blame her. The elf was a vision standing there in the firelight, beautiful and easygoing and entirely unperturbed by this determined feminine attention.

And it _was_ determined. Every few seconds, the woman let out a peal of laughter that rang clear across the room, resting a hand on the elf’s arm and leaning forward in a manner that just happened to offer him a bountiful view of her assets.

“She’s really pulling out all the stops, isn’t she?” Varric said.

“Indeed. If she pulls them out any farther, she’s liable to tear the lace on her bodice.”

“He’s handling it well, at least.”

Dorian was inclined to agree – and therein lay the curiosity. He’d spent a good portion of his three-week tenure with the Inquisition flirting rather shamelessly with the Herald, and his attentions had either been met with reserve, or, more delightfully, with adorable modesty. Lavellan’s manner with this barmaid was entirely different. He was relaxed. Confident. Not smug by any means, but very clearly safe in his own skin. The contrast was striking enough that Dorian’s curiosity was quite thoroughly piqued.

“So,” Varric said when the elf rejoined them at their table. “You’ve got an admirer.”

Dorian expected an embarrassed denial, but the elf just flashed that quiet smile of his. “Some people are drawn to notoriety, I suppose.”

“That must be it,” Dorian said. “Otherwise, she’d be interested in _me_.”

The elf laughed. “Obviously.”

“Not that you aren’t a close second. Very close, really.” Blue-green eyes met Dorian’s, and there was something in them that made him want to test a hypothesis. “For example, that fetching pair of eyes you’re fixing on me right now. They’d reduce any maiden to fits of blushing.”

Sure enough, a hint of colour touched the elf’s cheeks. _Interesting._ Dorian expanded the experiment.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Varric?” he asked.

“Oh no. Don’t get me involved in this.”

“Why not? Surely there’s nothing wrong with telling a fellow he’s pretty?”

“Nothing wrong at all. I just don’t think he needs me to tell him that. Pretty people always know they’re pretty, and anybody who says otherwise is writing fiction. Trust me.”

“But you do agree with me.”

“All right, Sparkler, if it means that much to you, of all the pretty elves of my acquaintance, he might just be the prettiest. Is there a point to this?”

“I’m wondering the same,” Lavellan said, laughing. “What in the world is this about, Dorian? Are you angling for something?”

 _All in the name of science, my good man._ “I’m only suggesting that we mustn’t be too hard on the poor girl if she’s smitten. After all, can you blame her? I can’t recall seeing a finer specimen since… ever, really.” He met Lavellan’s eye and held it, his mouth curled just short of a smile.

The elf blushed in earnest now. “What, not even in the mirror? Now I know you’re angling for something.”

A game reply, but he couldn’t hide those adorably pink cheeks. He was embarrassed. Flustered, even. The girl’s attentions, Varric’s flattery – they bounced off him like arrows glancing off plate armour. But Dorian’s shafts found their mark, each time and without fail.

What to make of that? He knew what he _wanted_ to make of it, even though it would complicate matters. Dorian enjoyed flirting with the Herald a great deal, in part because he was secure in the knowledge that the elf put no store in it. Or so he’d thought, but recent events had caused him to question this assumption. First there was the incident in his tent, where the elf had suddenly become agitated for no apparent reason. Then, the other day, he’d suggested that Dorian should “try his bed,” which was either completely innocent or one of the most artful sideswipes Dorian had ever experienced – he still couldn’t decide which.

And now this blushing. It _implied_ things. Didn’t it?

_Maker’s breath, Pavus. Overthinking much?_

“Oops,” said Varric, interrupting Dorian’s thoughts. “Here she comes again.”

As though anyone needed to be told. Her arrival was heralded by a cloud of fragrance so intense that it brought tears to Dorian’s eyes. Orlesian, judging from the sickly sweet floral tones. _Fasta vass_ , had she _bathed_ in it? “Your rooms are ready, my lord,” the girl simpered, eying Lavellan from beneath long lashes. “I can show you to yours, if you like.”

The elf smiled. “That’s very kind, but I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“Don’t let us step on your toes,” Varric said when she was out of earshot again. “If you want a little recreation time…”

Lavellan laughed. “I’ll pass, thank you. She’s not my type.”

“In that case, you’d better watch your back, because something tells me she’s not going to give up without a fight.”

“Duly noted. I am tired, though. The rooms are just through there, right?” He inclined his head in the direction of a door at the back of the room.

Dorian pushed back his chair. “Let’s find out, shall we? I’m ready to turn in as well. Coming, Varric?”

“You go ahead. I’m going to finish this jug.”

The elf paused, waiting until the barmaid was occupied at another table. Then he murmured, “Let’s hurry, before she sees us.”

Dorian led the way, trying not to snicker as he scurried across the crowded barroom and through the hallway door. “A bit undignified, isn’t it?” he said as he closed the door behind them. “You could simply tell her you’re not interested.”

“I could, and I will, if it comes to that. But a clean getaway is easiest for everyone concerned.”

Alas, a clean getaway was apparently out of reach; no sooner had they started down the hall than the doorknob behind them rattled, and Dorian’s nose was accosted by the smell of sugary flowers. Lavellan smelled it too; he gave Dorian a frantic glance and lunged for the nearest door, grabbing Dorian's wrist and yanking him into the darkness of an unoccupied room. They hovered near the door, listening to the footfalls outside.

“Herald?”

Dorian pretended he was about to answer, and Lavellan gave him a _look_ and slapped a hand playfully over his mouth. Then the doorknob to their room started to turn. Dorian hooked the elf by the waist and pulled him behind the door just as it opened, and there they cowered, pressed up against the wall, both of them shaking with silent laughter at the absurdity of it all.

A soft sigh of disappointment, and the door closed again. By this point, Dorian’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he realized he’d pulled Lavellan right off his feet; the elf leaned precariously against him, one hand braced against the wall over Dorian’s shoulder. Their faces hovered close enough that Dorian could feel the soft gusts of breath against his skin, fast and shallow. “Come now,” he murmured with a grin. “She’s not that scary.”

Lavellan smiled awkwardly and pushed himself away from the wall. “You were right,” he whispered. “That wasn’t the most dignified exit.”

“Perhaps not, but it was delightfully dramatic. Straight out of a romance novel. Only that would make you and me the lovers.”

Cue furious blush. Really, it was too easy. Dorian almost felt sorry for him.

He gave the elf a moment to recover, sticking his head out the door to make sure the barmaid was gone. “All clear,” he murmured, and the elf fled the room like a doe sprung from a hunter’s trap.

Dorian watched his back contemplatively as he followed the elf down the hall. His little experiment this evening had certainly been eye-opening. Available evidence appeared to support his theory that Lavellan reacted differently to his flirting than that of others. Still, any good scientist knew that one set of results did not a firm conclusion make. Further testing of this hypothesis was required.

Dorian planned to test it again soon. Thoroughly.


	13. A holiday tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday sugar alert! Fair warning: this one might make your teeth ache.

It’s the third feast of the season, and Dorian can plainly see that his _amatus_ is contemplating throwing himself off the ramparts. Oh, he hides it brilliantly, as always, his diplomat’s smile firmly in place as he makes breezy chitchat with the visiting Orlesian delegation. But the elf has his tells, and Dorian knows them all. Just now, for instance, the Inquisitor is being treated to a rather lengthy monologue from the Comte de Bloviate. (Dorian can't recall his actual name. They were introduced only a few minutes ago, but he’s already discarded the information like a used cocktail napkin.) To all appearances, Seth is enjoying the tale, smiling and nodding at all the right moments. But Dorian doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his sides, fingertips tapping his thumb impatiently as he waits for an opportunity to make a graceful exit. The Comte and his hangers-on see nothing of this. Too dazzled by the elf’s smile, and why wouldn’t they be? But Dorian can feel his desperation from clear across the room – and he’s not the only one.

“Boss needs rescuing,” Bull murmurs from behind the cover of his flagon. “You want me to do it?”

“Let’s do it together, shall we? We’ll stage a distraction. A fight between the two of us.”

Bull shoots him a side-eyed look. “A fight, huh? What are we arguing about?”

“A lovers’ spat.”

“Between me and the Inquisitor’s fiancé?”

“Delicious, isn’t it? We’re fighting over him, of course.”

Bull’s eye narrows even further. “You want the Orlesians thinking the Inquisitor is getting some Qunari on the side? Or, wait – am I getting some Tevinter on the side?”

“Either. Both.” Dorian flutters a hand dismissively. “Your pick.”

“You’re a messed up guy, Dorian, you know that?”

“ _Everyone_ knows that.” He sighs. “What I am is frightfully bored. Our lady ambassador has got a little carried away this holiday season, don’t you think? Three feasts in a row? I’d heard the Antivans celebrate Satinalia for a week or more, but I was expecting something a little spicier. At least throw in a good murder mystery or something.”

Bull hitches a meaty shoulder. “More parties, more free drinks.”

“I’ve always admired the simplicity of your philosophies, Bull.”

Blue-green eyes meet Dorian’s from across the room, and the effect is instantaneous. Seth’s shoulders relax a little, and his smile brightens almost imperceptibly. Thus fortified, he returns his attention to the Comte.

Dorian sighs. There’s nothing for it. Satinalia isn’t actually until tomorrow, and Dorian had Plans for the two of them. Terribly romantic, of course, with every detail carefully arranged. But he supposes there’s something to be said for spontaneity, too, and this suddenly feels like the right moment.

He drifts over to Leliana, who’s doing a masterful job of playing the wallflower while secretly cataloguing the most efficient way of killing everyone in the room. It’s important to have a hobby. “Sister Nightingale, I wonder if I might prevail upon you for a small favour?”

There are no small favours from Skyhold’s spymaster. Especially not for Dorian, who has yet to be forgiven for that time he inadvertently smashed Seth’s heart into little pieces.

“You may ask, at least,” she replies coolly, her gaze still making the rounds.

“I was hoping you might provide the Inquisitor with a plausible excuse to be elsewhere for a few minutes. Something urgent that requires his attention, et cetera. I won’t detain him for long, and I can assure you my intentions aren’t the least bit naughty.” For once.

“Naughty or nice, it makes no difference to me. If you can provide him even a moment's respite, it's worthwhile. Go. He’ll meet you in the library upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says, only a _little_ worried about how easy that was. He makes a discreet exit and heads up the stairs, his heart already racing with anticipation. He’s been working on this for months – ever since his birthday, in fact, when Seth’s beautiful gift taught him what thoughtfulness really looks like. He’s not going to top that – nothing ever could – but he can at least prove to his lover that he knows him every inch as well as Seth knows him.

It’s deserted in the rotunda, and dark, and Dorian still doesn’t hear him coming; Seth’s innocent _hi_ sends him halfway to the rafters.

“You’ll be the death of me with that one day,” he says, accepting a quick kiss in apology. “At the very least I’m going to be prematurely grey.”

“Horrors,” Seth says with a smile. His silver hair glows in the moonlight, and the emerald velvet they’ve stuffed him in brings out the green of his eyes. He’s perfection, and Dorian is half tempted to abandon his plan and have his way with the elf then and there. But that would be predictable, and tonight, he’s aiming higher.

“It’s Satinalia tomorrow,” he begins.

Seth’s mouth takes a sour turn. “I noticed. Why, is there another feast?”

“Hush. I’m doing a thing.”

“Sorry.”

“The origins of the holiday are of course Tevinter. But my research has revealed that for a brief time, the Dalish also celebrated the holiday, under the reign of Hassandriel.”

The name would bounce off all but the most dedicated of historians - so of course Seth recognizes it straightaway. “Hassandriel?” he raises his eyebrows. “That _is_ a long time ago.”

“Indeed. I’d never heard of him until I started rooting through the library downstairs. He turns out to have been a rather interesting character. Among his more endearing qualities was his legendary devotion to his bride. It was said that he could not bear to be without her for even a few minutes. That he couldn’t even leave a room without touching her.”

“How romantic.”

“Isn't it? He showered her with gifts, some of which were the subject of lengthy descriptions in one of the tomes Morrigan helped me translate. But none fascinated me more than this.” Dorian’s heart is hammering in his chest now – whether from nervousness or excitement, he can’t tell. A bit of both, probably.

Slowly, with appropriate flourish, he produces a bracelet. It’s a simple enough design, a circlet about a quarter-inch wide, completely unadorned save for the iridescence of the material itself. Few would recognize this particular material, but Seth has seen it before.

“Ancient elven.” He takes the bracelet with an astonished expression, turning it so that it glistens in the moonlight, shifting from indigo to green to gold. “This is the same material as they used to make the mosaics at Din’an Hanin and the Temple of Mythal.”

“ _Bellasan_ ,” Dorian says. “Named for the rainbow. It turns out to be a type of petrified wood. More specifically, Dalish ironwood treated with a series of spells.”

Seth glances up, eyes bright with fascination. “You learned how to craft it?”

“Of course. There’s really very little to it.” This is a lie. It took Dorian weeks to work it out, and a great many ironwood branches gave their lives in the process, but he sees no need to bore his lover with details.

“ _Bellasan_ ,” Seth murmurs, rolling this new word on his tongue. “The art must have been lost when the Dales fell. But you rediscovered it in the basement library?”

“Elegant, isn’t it? A gift for you, derived from a gift for me. Based on a gift a Dalish lord gave to his beloved to honour a Tevinter holiday.”

“It’s… Dorian, it’s…” He leans in breathlessly, but Dorian puts a finger to his lips.

“Hold that thought. I haven’t even got to the best part yet.” He takes the bracelet and slips it over Seth’s hand – whereupon it shrinks until it clasps his wrist snugly. It’s really quite sexy, but that still isn’t the best part. Dorian produces a second circlet of _bellasan_ , this one a great deal smaller. It’s a ring, and he slips it over his own baby finger.

Seth laughs. “Ah, I see. Now we match.”

“Tut-tut, Inquisitor. You give me too little credit.” Smiling like the cat that got the cream, Dorian runs his thumb over the ring – and watches in satisfaction as Seth’s eyes light up again, his gaze falling to the bracelet around his wrist.

“It’s warm!”

“They’re magically tethered. From now on, I can send you a little greeting whenever I wish, or you to me. No matter how crowded the room or boring the conversation, I can remind you of my love without anyone but the two of us being the wiser. And I need never leave a room without touching you again.”

There’s a beat of silence. Seth just stands there, staring.

“The range isn’t what I would like it to be. It works within the walls of Skyhold, but not much farther. Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the contributions of Morrigan and Dagna, and I—”

Seth takes Dorian’s face in his hands and kisses him fiercely, and when he draws back, there’s a shimmer of tears in his eyes. He kisses Dorian again and again, and by the time he’s done Dorian’s heart is pattering away happily.

He likes it. He _loves_ it.

“There now,” Dorian says, feeling ridiculously warm and fuzzy and also just a tad triumphant. “Let’s get you back to the party, shall we?”

“In a minute.” Seth pushes him backward, and before Dorian can say _but I promised Leliana_ his breeches are undone and there are hands in all the right places.

“Really? Shagging in a dark corner in the middle of a Satinalia party?” Seth answers with his body, and Dorian is powerless to refuse him. Not that he had any intention of doing so in the first place. “Very well, Inquisitor. Maybe just a quick one.”

“Not too quick,” the elf whispers, his mouth hot against Dorian’s. And a new Satinalia tradition is born.


	14. The letter

_Dorian,_

_It has been nearly three months since the defeat of Corypheus. Satinalia has come and gone, the third such since our meeting at the tavern in Redcliffe. During that interval, I have written to you four times, though I have yet to receive even the briefest of replies. I enumerate these facts not because they are unknown to you, but in the foolish hope that reading them might move you reconsider this protracted silence, which is hurtful to your mother and thoroughly perplexing to me._

_I am at a loss to imagine what is going on in your head, Dorian. When last we spoke, you indicated that you joined the Inquisition out of a sense of duty, and while I cannot claim to have agreed with that logic, I believed that I understood it. How, then, to explain your remaining there? Corypheus is no more. Most of the rifts within reach have been sealed, and those that remain are largely being managed, if the intelligence reports we receive in the Magisterium are to be credited. Your duty to the south, such as it was, is surely done. And yet you remain. This in spite of the fact that you have duties here, both filial and societal, which, while they may not be pleasing to you, are obligations nevertheless – obligations you continue to shirk._

_I can only surmise that your reasons for lingering in the south are of a personal nature. I will not trouble you with a description of your mother’s reaction upon hearing the rumours of your involvement with the Inquisitor. As for myself, I was hardly surprised. You have always enjoyed being as shocking as possible, and in Lavellan, you have hit, as the dwarven miners say, “the mother lode.” You would not have been content, I think, merely to attach yourself to the most talked-about man in Thedas. Had he not been an elf, and Dalish besides, I daresay you would have turned your attentions elsewhere and sought out something nearly as ridiculous. A Qunari, perhaps, of at least middling notoriety. The only surprising aspect of the affair is that it continues. Indeed, it has apparently escalated to the point of outrageous rumours of an impending alliance between the two of you. Why persist with this charade? You have your whispers, Dorian, and presumably whatever ephemeral pleasures you hoped for as well. Like the Inquisition itself, your relationship with Lavellan has served its purpose. And yet you remain._

_So I ask you candidly, my son: what are you doing? What can you possibly hope for? You have made your point. Consider your mother and me duly humbled by your actions. Your pride has been serviced: you have made a hero of yourself in the south, a legacy which is best preserved by leaving those lands before the lustre comes off. Let them remember you in song and story – that way, they can never be disappointed. As for your association with the Inquisitor, you must know this will only bring you pain. Whatever your intentions, or even his, it must end eventually. Better to cut ties before it becomes too difficult._

_Like the facts I enumerated at the opening of this letter, these truths are all known to you, in your heart. One thing we have always agreed upon in this family is that you are strong-willed. Summon that strength now, my son, and do what you must. It will only get harder as time goes on._

_Come home, Dorian. Let us begin the difficult work of repairing this family and looking to the future._

_In sincere hope,_

_Your father_

_Father,_

_How wonderful to hear from you. Your letters are always such a delight. There is nothing quite like having one’s proudest and most cherished accomplishments dismissed as an elaborate exercise in attention-grabbing to make one feel valued and respected. I particularly enjoyed the part where you cast me as some sort of seductive predator in search of the ultimate prey. Like a wolf, perhaps, to the Inquisitor’s innocent stag. In fact, I’m so enamored of this image that I believe I’ll mention it to him – we’re always looking for new forms of bedroom role play. Keeps things interesting, you know._

_This is actually the second letter I’ve penned. The first lies crumpled at my feet, beside the ashes of your letter. (The Nightingale is going to be cross about that. “Dorian, how many times must I ask you to refrain from burning your father’s letters in the library?” She’s right, you know. So many books here. It would be terribly embarrassing if I burned Skyhold to the ground in a fit of pique. For both our sakes, you should probably stop sending them.)_

_Where was I? Ah, yes – the first version of this letter. It contained a long and heartfelt reply to your various questions. Frightfully witty and poetic, obviously, particularly the parts about my relationship with Lavellan. (That’s INQUISITOR Lavellan to you, Magister Pavus.) But then I realized something. You are no longer entitled to my dreams, Father, if indeed you ever were. My hopes, my fears, my intentions – they are mine. And they are Seth’s. Just as my heart is his, now and forever, and that is all you ever need know._

_As for the rest, if you genuinely seek an explanation for my continued absence, may I direct you to that ghastly oversized mirror in your study? I’m sure you will find it instructive._

_Now if you will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to. I’ve a nose hair or two that needs plucking, and as you of all people are aware, if you don’t stay on top of that sort of thing, it gets out of hand rather quickly._

_Love to Mother._

_Dorian_

He puts his quill down, folds the letter, and takes it up to Leliana. He doesn’t bother to seal it. That would be a waste of wax, since she’ll only read it anyway. He just hands it to her and walks away, pretending not to feel that icy gaze on his back.

He heads straight for the Inquisitor’s quarters, and he’s relieved to find his _amatus_ sitting quietly at his desk, working away. Seth is so absorbed that he doesn’t hear Dorian coming, so he’s a little startled when he finds himself being pulled to his feet and swept into a breathlessly romantic kiss. He’s game, of course – Dorian is an _excellent_ kisser – and they carry on for a while, a silence broken only by the soft sighs between each caress of the lips. Not wanting to be left out, Maggie trots over, and having the elf in his arms and the wolf swirling around his legs soothes the ache in Dorian’s heart.

At last they part, and Seth gives him a curious smile. “What was that for?”

“You,” Dorian murmurs, framing the elf’s face in his hands and gazing over those beloved features. “You’re what I hope for. _This_ is what I hope for.”

Seth’s brow creases. He has no context for this remark, and doesn’t know what to make of it. “You have it.”

“I know. Which makes me the luckiest man in Thedas.” Dorian kisses him softly again, and vows never to forget it.


	15. Chapter 15

Hey all, ICYMI, I've started a new post-Trespasser fic featuring these two, which is why it's been a minute since I updated this one. It's called The Dragon and The Halla. I'll be working on both interchangeably. So if you're impatient for more content, that's where it is!


	16. A Memory: Stillness

Dorian was flirting.

Not his usual, day-to-day flirting, mind, but the real thing, a concerted, genuine effort to seduce. This sort of flirting wasn’t just about clever words or perfectly devastating smiles. His entire body had been recruited to the cause. Everything, from the angle of his head to the purr of his voice to the way he toyed idly with his wine glass, was carefully calculated to send a message. He was a moving sculpture, a canvass across which had been splashed beauty, confidence, just a hint of danger. The look in his eye was predatory, the curl of his mouth faintly daring. _If you let me_ , that look said, _I will take you apart and leave you a boneless, quivering mess. And you will beg me to do it again._

It was going rather well, naturally. Dorian was _very_ good at this. The trouble was, the man he was flirting with was not the man he was trying to seduce.

He’d given up pretending that his fascination with Inquisitor Lavellan was a passing fancy. What had started out as a harmless crush had grown into raw, restless _wanting_ , an obsession he was increasingly powerless to resist. This may or may not have had anything to do with those cursed leather breeches the elf had started wearing around Skyhold, the ones that hugged his arse so beautifully. They were snug in all the right places, those breeches. Dorian wanted to _be_ those breeches.

He was staring at them again, wasn’t he?

He was.

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” He returned his attention to the young man he was flirting with, a pretty elven mage who just happened to bear a certain resemblance to the Inquisitor. A counterfeit Lavellan, and a rather passable one at that. Were it not for the presence of the genuine article, Dorian might have been tempted. But there was simply no competing with the real thing.

The Real Thing, for his part, was on the far side of the hall chatting with some of the new recruits, as was his duty at this little meet-and-greet. Dorian had positioned himself strategically so he could flirt with – what was his name again? – in full view of the Inquisitor. Lavellan had only to glance over and he would get an eyeful of that _take-you-apart_ look, leaving him to contemplate what it would be like to have that directed at him.

The idea was simple: dazzle the Inquisitor from afar, without causing any tongues to wag. The elf had seen him flirt before – Dorian had been doing it rather shamelessly since Day 1 – but he’d been fighting with one hand tied behind his back. Too worried about doing the right thing, or being quietly murdered by the Nightingale, to really turn on the charm. The elf didn’t yet understand what Dorian was capable of. How truly bright he could shine. He’d been looking through tinted glass until now, but Dorian would have him stare directly at the sun.

Except he wasn’t. As far as Dorian could tell, the elf had yet to glance his way even a single time. Dorian knew those elven ears could hear him laughing. Might even be keen enough to pick up a suggestive phrase here and there. But he just wasn’t biting. Dorian had been angling for half an hour now, and not a single tug on his pole.

The Circle mage, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to tug Dorian’s pole very badly indeed. He’d dropped several hints about being shown around the library while it was deserted. Dorian felt a little guilty about getting him all hot and bothered, but all was fair in love and war, et cetera.

 _Come on_ , he thought in Lavellan’s direction. _Just one glance. You won’t be able to look away._ He tossed out another velveteen laugh – still nothing. It was perfectly maddening. Was it possible the Inquisitor simply didn’t find him attractive? That their flirting had been as empty and performative as what he was doing right now?

And then Lavellan did look away – not at Dorian, but in the direction of his quarters, throwing an unmistakably longing glance at that closed door on the far side of the room. He was through with mingling, apparently, but he must have judged that he’d never make his escape that way, because he excused himself and headed for the door to the rotunda instead.

Before he even fully registered what he was doing, Dorian had extracted himself from the panting Circle mage and slipped into the stairwell after the Inquisitor. He reached the second floor just in time to see a flash of silver hair in the moonlight as the Inquisitor ducked outside onto the ramparts.

Once again, Dorian’s feet started moving of their own accord. _What are you doing, Pavus?_ he scolded himself even as he walked. _Are we officially stalking now? Is that what’s happening?_

He stepped out into the moonlight – and very nearly ran into the Inquisitor, who stood with his elbows propped on the wall, gazing contemplatively out into the night. “Oh,” said the elf, looking surprised. “Hi.”

Dorian scrambled for some plausible explanation for his presence there. “Hello,” he said, feeling like an utter fool. “I, er…”

“It looks like we’ve chosen the same spot,” the Inquisitor said with an awkward smile. “Probably better if I move on before your company arrives. Plausible deniability and all that.”

It took Dorian a moment to work out what he meant. _He thinks you’ve come here for a clandestine encounter with the Circle mage._ So he _had_ noticed Dorian’s flirting, at least a little. “Oh, no – it’s not like that,” Dorian said with an awkward laugh to match the elf’s smile. “I was just through with the party, that’s all. Thought I’d take a quiet walk.”

The elf’s smile relaxed. “Great minds,” he said, gazing out over the bailey once more.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding. I’m happy for the company.”

 _Then why did you leave your own party?_ Dorian didn’t ask. He didn’t want to break the spell. And it felt like a spell, the two of them out here alone in the silver moonlight and the airy hush of the mountains. Dorian leaned against the wall beside the Inquisitor and let the night settle over his shoulders like a blanket. He tried to think of something to say to fill the silence – and then he realized he didn’t need to. The silence was fine. The silence was perfect.

He’d spent the entire evening trying to get under the elf’s skin. To stir him to passion. But this moment right here – the stillness of it, the intimacy – was a far greater prize. The elf had come here for solitude, but he’d chosen to share it with Dorian. And to his surprise, Dorian was more than satisfied with that.

It all meant something, probably. He’d unpack it later, in the quiet of his own bed. For now, he took what the elf was willing to give, and they laughed and chatted, stripped of all pretence or agenda. Dorian didn’t flirt even once.

It was the best night he’d had in a very long time.


	17. Revisiting

“Where did you go?” Seth’s voice thrums under Dorian’s ear. They’re sprawled out on the bed, sleepy and sated. Dorian’s head is on Seth’s chest, his fingers tracing idle little figure eights on the elf’s stomach.

“I was just reminiscing,” Dorian replies. “A random memory from years ago. Not sure what brought it to mind. The silence, I suppose.”

“Silence?”

“The fact that we were just lying here not saying anything, and I was perfectly content. I’ve always loved that about us.”

Seth’s gentle laughter bounces under his ear. “Since when? You’re allergic to silence.”

“Most of the time, perhaps. But not with you.” Dorian laces his fingers through Seth’s and presses a kiss to the backs of his knuckles.

“Which random memory was this?”

“I doubt you’d even recall. It was a long time ago. Shortly after we’d arrived at Skyhold. Josephine was still throwing those meet-and-greets for the new recruits – do you remember? You hated them.”

“I didn’t _hate_ them. They were my idea, after all.”

“Nonsense.” He glances up at Seth and sees that he’s serious. “Really?”

“Very Dalish of me, looking back on it. I still hadn’t quite accepted that I wasn’t part of a clan anymore. All these new faces… the anonymity of it… It made me uncomfortable. I wanted people to get to know each other, and I thought a few free drinks might help it along.”

Dorian hums in surprise. He wouldn’t have thought there was much of anything they didn’t know about each other at this point, but he never knew that. “I suppose I assumed that since you routinely fled after about half an hour…”

Seth laughs, sounding a little guilty. “Well, they were a bit awkward, weren’t they?”

“Not for me. I rather enjoyed flirting with the newcomers.”

“You don’t say.” The elf’s tone has turned wry.

“So you did notice.” Dorian shifts, the back of his head resting against Seth’s stomach. “I didn’t think you were paying attention. It quite wounded my pride, actually.”

Seth’s brow stitches, and his fingers twine absently in Dorian’s hair. “What are you talking about?”

“There was this one night. I wanted so badly for you to notice me. It was pathetic, really.” He’s half surprised he’s willing to admit this, but there’s little point in being coy at this stage of their relationship. “I flirted shamelessly with some Circle elf in the hope of getting your attention.”

Seth is quiet, fingers still toying with Dorian’s hair.

“I made myself as thoroughly bewitching as I knew how to be,” Dorian goes on. He’s feeling a little self-conscious now, but he brushes it off, affecting a tone of airy nonchalance. “I kept waiting for you to look over, but you never did. Or if you did, you were singularly unimpressed. I might have been anyone else in that room. Thoroughly humbling. It was almost enough to make me question whether I was truly as handsome and charming as I thought.”

Seth still doesn’t respond, and now Dorian is feeling rather exposed.

“You were so hopelessly bored that you actually fled the party. But when I found you on the ramparts, you were kind enough to overlook my embarrassing behaviour downstairs and just enjoy a companionable evening.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m sure you don’t remember any of it,” he says with a careless wave. “Hardly worth—”

“I do remember,” Seth says, and there’s an odd tone in his voice Dorian can’t quite read. “I remember it very well. And you couldn’t be more wrong.”

Dorian frowns at the ceiling. “Sorry?”

“I did run away, but not because I was bored. I needed some air. I was flustered and frustrated and sure everyone could tell, and I just needed to get out of there.”

“Flustered?”

“Extremely. There was this mage at the party. The most beautiful man I’d ever seen…”

Dorian _tsk_ s. “Stop it.”

“I’m serious.” He sits up a little, so that he’s looking Dorian in the eye. “Do you want to know what I was thinking that night? I was watching you flirt with that Circle mage and thinking, _that could be me, if I let it._ You’d made it pretty clear by that point that you were attracted to me. And it was so, so tempting – but that was the problem. You were the centre of the room that night, Dorian. Like a candle in the dark, and I couldn’t stop looking. You took my breath away. I thought, if I let those fingers touch me, even a little… If I let those eyes look at me that way… I’ll never break free. I’ll be a moth to that flame, and I’ll set myself on fire and that will be the end of me. And I would have burned, happily, but they'd just made me _Inquisitor_ , and people were depending on me, and I couldn’t allow it. So I left. I wasn’t fleeing the party, Dorian. I was fleeing _you_.”

Dorian stares up at him, speechless. Seth is looking him right in the eye. He wants Dorian to see that he means every word. “But,” Dorian manages eventually. “You didn’t even glance in my direction.”

“Didn’t I?” Seth smiles. “It’s a poor hunter who gets caught stalking.”

“But.” He’s still having trouble with this. “When I found you on the ramparts, you asked me to stay. If you were trying to get away from me…”

“You’d dismissed the glamour by then. You weren’t trying anymore. Just being yourself. That much Dorian I could handle. And it helped to curb the craving. Just a little taste, but not too much.”

Dorian is stunned. Not just that he’d misread the situation so thoroughly, but that even now, years later, they’re surprising each other with just how powerful this thing between them is, has always been. Right from the start.

He climbs up the elf’s body and covers it with his own, pressing a hard kiss to his mouth, and Seth answers in kind, catching Dorian’s face in his hands and arching beneath him. They fit together so neatly, limbs twined together, dark skin on light, heartbeat on heartbeat.

“Maker's breath,” Dorian murmurs, his thumb drifting along Seth’s cheekbone. “We never stood a chance, did we? We were always going to end up madly in love.”

“Maybe, but this…” Seth catches the halla horn amulet dangling from Dorian's neck, picks up its twin resting against his own chest. He holds the two promise necklaces together, dragon bone and halla horn resting beautifully side by side. “This didn’t just happen. This took suffering. It took courage.” He kisses one amulet, then the other.

“Ah, but we conquered. We always conquer, _amatus_.” Dorian smiles and brushes Seth’s hair off his forehead. “Now then, that’s entirely enough syrup for one day.” He rolls onto his back and folds his hands behind his head. “Tell me again about this mage. The most beautiful man you’d ever seen.”

Seth laughs. And he does.


End file.
